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FROM   THE   LIBRARY   OF 
REV.    LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON,   D.  D 

BEQUEATHED    BY   HIM   TO 

THE    LIBRARY   OF 

PRINCETON   THEOLOGICAL   SEMINARY 


DWtaion     oW^ 

Sect  J  on 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

Princeton  Theological  Seminary  Library 


http://archive.org/details/pookmsOOchad 


Book    of    Poems 


BY 


JOHN    W.  CHADWICK. 


BOSTON: 
ROBERTS      BROTHERS. 

1890. 


Copyright,  l888, 
By  John  W.  Chadwick. 


EIGHTH    EDITION    R  I  S  I  -  KD    AM  l    ENLARGED. 


University  Press:  John  Wilson  &  S 

MBRID 


To  one  all  honesty  and  truth. 

To  one  all  tenderness  and  love,— 
Father  and  Mother ;  —  and  to  one 

Who  dwells  with  happy  saints  above;  — 
Thou j  Sister,  who  wast  more  to  me 

Than  lips  of  mine  can  ever  say  ; 
Dispeller  of  my  darkest  night, 

Dear  prophet  of  my  better  day  ; 
To  one  who  calls  me  Brother  still, 

Most  kind  to  me  and  all  of  mine, 
Strong  to  uphold  in  time  of  need 

Though  tremulous  as  the  clinging  vine  ; 
To  one  who  full  of  years  and  grace 

Still  called  me  by  7ny  earliest  name, 
Whose  simple  praise  I  counted  more 

Than  any  hollow  voice  of  fame  ; 
To  one,  of  all  my  friends  most  dear, 

A  spirit  brave  and  wise  and  good, 
Whose  love  has  made  me  more  a  man, 

And  made  God's  love  more  understood ; 
And  two,  —  of  such  the  kingdom  is,  — 

Whose  winsome  prattle  helps  me  more 
Than  aught  that  I  have  ever  gleaned 

From  Bible-text  or  scholar's  lore  ; 
But  most  of  all,  to  one  whose  hand 

Lies  close  in  mine  where'er  I  roam  ; 
My  sternest  critic,  safest  guide, 

The  dear  wife-a?igel  of  my  home. 


1873 


CONTENTS. 


POEMS    OF    NATURE. 

K  Page 

My  Barnacles 13 

Whitsuntide 16 

By  the  Sea-shore 19 

Nirvana 22 

All  for  Each 25 

Rain  after  Drought 28 

Sea-sorcery 30 

The  Golden-robin's  Nest ^ 

To  the  Sea 35 

Rhododendrons      36 

A  September  Gale 37 

Storm  and  Shine 39 

In  Dog-days 41 

Wakeful 42 

Monadnock 43 

Leave-taking 44 

"  His  Compassions  fail  not  " 45 

Sea-born  Venus 47 

"What  do  I  know?" \q 

Works  and  Days 51 


6  CONTENTS. 

Page 

Crow's  Nest 54 

In  Ju»e 55 

A  Song  for  the  Harvest 56 

Snow-maidens 59 

A  Sonnet 60 

Bald-cap  Revisited 6i 

Lost  and  Found     .     .     .     .' 68 


POEMS   OF   LIFE    AND    LOVE. 

Tete-a-Tete 73 

The  Gate  called  Beautiful 76 

Real  and  Ideal 79 

A  Vindication Si 

The  Over-soul 82 

Carpe  Diem 84 

"  Why  this  Waste  ?  " 85 

The  greatest  Wonder »S6 

From  the  Invisible $7 

Rowena  Darling SS 

Unconsciousness 90 

Sub-consciousness 91 

The  Story  of  Medardus 92 

A  Timely  Question 96 

Not  Net 99 

Unrecognized 102 

The  Hardest  Lot 103 

The  Rise  of  Man 104 

The  [neffable  Name 105 

Starlight  ...  106 


CONTENTS.  7 

Page 

Anti-discouragement 107 

Jan  Steener's  Ride no 

The  Harbor-lights 114 

A  Wedding-song • 116 

Fate 117 

COMING   AND   GOING. 

The  Oldest  Story 121 

In  an  Unknown  Tongue 123 

To  Jacob  Abbott 126 

A  True  Story 127 

What  would  they  say  ? 128 

The  Father's  Joy 130 

The  Mother's  Joy 131 

"  Water  and  the  Spirit  " 133 

Catching  Sunshine 136 

Gifts  in  Sleep 138 

The  Children's  Christmas 140 

Grace  before  Meat 142 

Annus  Mirabilis 144 

Sadness  and  Gladness 146 

Little  Hannah 150 

A  Double  Meaning 153 

Under  the  Snow    . 155 

COxMFORT   IN   SORROW. 

A  Song  of  Trust 159 

The  Other  Side 162 

Nos  morituri  te  salutamus 164 


8  CONTENTS. 

Pack 

Life  after  Death 166 

King  Edwin's  Feast 169 

Buddha's  Lesson 172 

Death  and  Spring 173 

Sealed  Orders 176 

\<>  More  Sea 179 

Three  Happy  Souls 181 

The  Two  Waitings 183 

Where? 185 

Their  Thoughts  and  Our  Thoughts 189 

Recognition 191 

Identity 192 

With  a  Book  of  Ballads 193 

The  Heart  of  it 194 

Her  Christmas 196 

The  Trysting-place 198 

His  Fortune 201 

Heard  From 203 

A  Talisman 204 

A  Dedication 205 

i\  Nazareth  Town 209 

A  Legend  of  Good  Poets 217 

HYMNS    AND    PRAISES. 

i  the  Last  Time 233 

Another  War 

M11- lord's  Victory 237 


CONTENTS.  9 

Page 

An  Ode ,     .     .     .  242 

Invocation 250 

Easter  Morning 251 

The  Perfect  Law 252 

John  Weiss 253 

The  Meeting-house 254 

Hymn  for  the  Dedication  of  the  Unitarian  Building,  Boston  .  255 

Before  Christmas 257 

Modjeska  as  Rosalind 259 

To  A.  W.  R , 260 

Charles  Sumner 261 

To  Frederic  Henry  Hedge 262 

Hymn  written  for  my  Divinity-school  Graduation      ....  263 

Hymn  for  a  Friend's  Graduation ".  264 

A  Dedication  Hymn       266 

Hymn  for  a  Friend's  Ordination 267 

The  Law  of  Liberty 268 

Lucretia  Mott 270 

William  Henry  Furness 271 

Ezra  Stiles  Gannett 275 

Seven  Times  Eleven 277 

Auld  Lang  Syne 279 


POEMS    OF    NATURE. 


POEMS    OF   NATURE. 


-•-._-•- 


MY   BARNACLES. 

OT  those  whose  life  is  hid  with  God 
In  the  unfathomed  sea ; 
Not  those  which  gleam  so  milky-white. 
Under  my  dory's  lee, 


As  o'er  her  side  I  softly  lean, 

And  watch  the  life  below,  — 
The  strange,  fair  things  which  there  abide, 

And  those  which  come  and  go. 

Nor  call  I  mine  the  crowds  that  cling 
To  many  a  venturous  keel,  — 

A  mimic  world,  whose  tiny  folk 
Through  ocean  spaces  steal. 

Mine  are  the  little  creatures  left 

By  the  retreating  sea, 
Who  long  for  it  to  come  again, 

So  masterful  and  free. 


14  MY  BARNACLES. 

It  goes :  the  hot  sun  scorches  them, 

And  lovers'  careless  feet 
Tread  them  to  death,  as  if  no  life 

But  theirs  were  passing  sweet. 

It  comes  :  it  woos,  it  kisses  them  ; 

It  drenches  them  with  love  ; 
It  is  a  presence  everywhere,  — 

Around,  beneath,  above. 

And  these  are  mine  by  lover's  right ; 

And,  when  the  tide  is  low, 
Down  to  its  edge  with  scooping  hands 

Or  cup  of  shell  I  go, 

And  dip  the  briny  waters  up, 
And  bear  them  back  to  give 

To  these  wee  things  that  long  for  them 
As  dying  men  to  live. 

How  eagerly  their  shells  dispart 

To  take  the  moisture  in ! 
And  do  I  hear  a  tiny  laugh,  — 

The  faintest,  merriest  din  ? 

What  think  they  of  the  sudden  draught  ? 

That  'tis  the  coming  sea  ? 
A  little  wave  sent  on  before 

The  mighty  companv  ? 


AfY  BARNACLES.  1 5 

And  when  they  know  it  is  not  that, 

Do  they  reproach  the  hand 
Which  brings  the  broken  promise  up 

From  the  xi  ave-beaten  strand  ? 

Believe  it  not :  they  know  the  step 

Of  the  advancing  sea, 
Better  than  maidens  know  the  feet 

That  come  so  stealthily. 

They  take,  with  thanks,  the  human  help, 

And  still  with  patience  wait 
For  the  vast  love  to  come  and  fill 

The  void  it  doth  create. 

So  wait  our  souls  on  Thee,  O  God ! 

Their  longing  is  from  Thee  : 
All  human  help  must  ever  hint 

At  Thy  sufficiency. 

Come  as  the  ocean  comes,  to  give 

Its  energy  divine ; 
Fold  us  in  Thy  encircling  arms, 

And  make  us  wholly  Thine. 


Marklehead,  August,  187 1. 


1 6  /  /  '1IITSUNTIDE. 


WHITSUNTIDE. 


UT  from  the  city's  flaming  heart, 
Miles  but  a  dozen  away, 
I  know  of  a  mountain's  secret  shrine, 
Where  lately  I  went  to  pray. 


But  my  prayer  was  not  for  the  smallest  boon : 

It  was  nothing  but  thanks  and  joy, 
As  I  roamed  through  the  scented  woodland  paths 

With  the  heart  of  a  happy  boy ; 

As  I  touched  the  tips  of  the  maple-boughs, 

Shaded  with  softest  brown  ; 
As  the  thistle  showed  me  her  armature, 

Frosted  with  silvery  down. 

And,  oh  !  the  gleam  of  the  birches'  stems, 

And  the  new  green  of  the  pines, 
And  the  hemlock  fringes  sweeping  low, 

Till  they  touched  the  creeping  vines! 


WHITSUNTIDE.  1 7 

And  every  bank  was  studded  thick 

With  wild  flowers  sweet  and  rare  ; 
While  the  ferns  seemed  made  of  spirit-stuff, 

They  were  so  slight  and  fair. 

And  the  city  was  gleaming  far  away 

Through  a  veil  of  thin  white  mist, 
And  billows  of  green  rolled  in  between, 

Till  the  land  and  the  water  kissed. 

It  was  only  a  dozen  miles  away, 

As  flies  the  laden  bee, 
But  to  my  free  thought  'twas  a  hundred  leagues, 

And  more,  to  the  shining  sea. 

Could  it  be,  I  thought,  in  the  world  with  this 

There  was  dust  and  heat  and  glare  ? 
Could  it  be  there  was  sorrow  and  hate  and  sin, 

And  terror  and  wild  despair  ? 

Alas  !  it  could  ;  but  for  this  one  day 

I  would  live  as  if  it  could  not ; 
I  would  dream  that  the  world,  from  end  to  end, 

Was  only  this  one  dear  spot. 

All  should  be  sweet  and  cool  and  pure ; 

All  should  be  gay  and  free  \ 
All  men  be  as  gentle,  all  women  as  true 

As  the  man  and  the  woman  with  me. 


1 8  WHITSUNTIDE. 

They  had  lived  with  the  birds  and  the  flowers  so  long 
They  seemed  to  have  learned  their  speech : 

Softer  it  fell  on  my  drowsy  sense 
Than  the  rain  on  a  sandy  beach. 

They  could  call  the  trees  and  the  flowers  by  name ; 

They  could  tell  me  of  all  their  times ; 
And  their  talk  was  a  poem  that  needed  not 

The  help  of  a  poet's  rhymes. 

Where  was  the  service  that  day,  think  you  ? 

Down  in  the  valley  below, 
Where  the  sweet-toned  bell  of  the  village  church 

Was  swinging  to  and  fro ; 

Or  was  it  there,  on  the  mountain-side, 

Where  the  Spirit,  with  two  or  three, 
Was  saying  softly,  in  various  speech, 

"  Let  the  little  ones  come  unto  me  ? " 


1872. 


BY  THE  SEA-SHORE.  1 9 


BY   THE   SEA-SHORE. 


HE  curved  strand 

Of  cool,  gray  sand 
Lies  like  a  sickle  by  the  sea ; 
The  tide  is  low, 
But  soft  and  slow 
Is  creeping  higher  up  the  lea. 


The  beach-birds  fleet, 

With  twinkling  feet, 
Hurry  and  scurry  to  and  fro, 

And  sip,  and  chat 

Of  this  and  that 
Which  you  and  I  may  never  know. 

The  runlets  gay, 

That  haste  away 
To  meet  each  snowy-bosomed  crest, 

Enrich  the  shore 

With  fleeting  store 
Of  art-defying  arabesque. 


20  BY   THE  SEA-SHORi:. 

Each  higher  wave 

Doth  touch  and  luve 
A  million  pebbles  smooth  and  bright; 

Straightway  they  grow 

A  beauteous  show, 
With  hues  unknown  before  bedight. 

High  up  the  beach, 

Far  out  of  reach 
Of  common  tides  that  ebb  and  flow, 

The  drift-wood's  heap 

Doth  record  keep 
Of  storms  that  perished  long  ago. 

Nor  storms  alone : 

I  hear  the  moan 
Of  voices  choked  by  dashing  brine, 

When  sunken  rock 

Or  tempest  shock 
Crushed  the  good  vessel's  oaken  spine. 

Where  ends  the  beach, 
The  cliffs  up  reach 
Their  lichened  bastions  centuries  old  ; 

And  here  I  rest, 
While  all  the  west 
Grows  brighter  with  the  sunset's  gold. 


BY   THE  SEASHORE.  2  1 

Far  out  at  sea, 

The  ships  that  flee 
Along  the  dim  horizon's  line 

Their  sails  unfold 

Like  cloth  of  gold, 
Transfigured  by  that  light  divine. 

A  calm  more  deep, 

As  'twere  asleep, 
Upon  the  weary  ocean  falls  ; 

So  low  it  sighs, 

Its  murmur  dies, 
While  shrill  the  boding  cricket  calls. 

0  peace  and  rest ! 
Upon  the  breast 

Of  God  himself  I  seem  to  lean, 

No  break,  no  bar 

Of  sun  or  star : 
Just  God  and  I,  with  naught  between. 

Oh,  when  some  day 
In  vain  I  pray 
For  days  like  this  to  come  again, 

1  shall  rejoice 
With  heart  and  voice 

That  one  such  day  has  ever  been. 


Marblehead,  1875. 


2  2  NIRVANA. 


NIRVANA. 

LONG  the  scholar's  glowing  page 
I  read  the  Orient  thinker's  dream 
Of  things  that  are  not  what  they  seem, 

Of  mystic  chant  and  Soma's  rage. 


The  sunlight  flooding  all  the  room 
To  me  again  was  Indra's  smile, 
And  on  the  hearth  the  blazing  pile 

For  Agni's  sake  did  fret  and  fume. 

Yet  most  I  read  of  who  aspire 
To  win  Nirvana's  deep  repose,  — 
Of  that  long  way  the  spirit  goes 

To  reach  the  absence  of  desire. 

But  through  the  music  of  my  book 
Another  music  smote  my  ear, — 
A  tinkle  silver-sweet  and  clear, — 

The  babble  of  the  mountain  brook. 


NIRVANA.  23 

%i  Oh  !  leave/'  it  said,  "  your  ancient  seers  ; 
Come  out  into  the  woods  with  me ; 
Behold  an  older  mystery 
Than  Buddhist's  hope  or  Brahman's  fears  ! 

The  voice  so  sweet  I  could  but  hear. 
I  sallied  forth,  with  staff  in  hand, 
Where,  mile  on  mile,  the  mountain  land 

Was  radiant  with  the  dying  year. 

I  heard  the  startled  partridge  whirr, 
And  crinkling  through  the  tender  grass 
I  saw  the  striped  adder  pass, 

Where  dropped  the  chestnut's  prickly  bun 

I  saw  the  miracle  of  life 

From  death  upspringing  evermore  ; 

The  fallen  tree  a  forest  bore 
Of  tiny  forms  with  beauty  rife. 

I  gathered  mosses  rare  and  sweet, 
The  acorn  in  its  carven  cup  \ 
'  Mid  heaps  of  leaves,  wind-gathered  up. 

I  trod  with  half-remorseful  feet. 

The  maple's  blush  I  made  my  own, 
The  sumac's  crimson  splendor  bold, 
The  poplar's  hue  of  paly  gold, 

The  faded  chestnut,  crisi)  and  brown. 


24  NIRVANA. 

1  climbed  the  mountain's  shaggy  crest, 
Where  masses  huge  of  molten  rock, 
After  long  years  of  pain  and  shock, 

Fern-covered,  from  their  wanderings  rest. 

Far,  far  below  the  valley  spread 
Its  rich,  roof-dotted,  wide  expanse ; 
And  further  still  the  sunlight's  dance 

The  amorous  river  gayly  led. 

But,  still,  with  all  I  heard  or  saw 

There  mingled  thoughts  of  that  old  time, 
And  that  enchanted  Eastern  clime 

Where  Buddha  gave  his  mystic  law,  — 

Till,  wearied  with  the  lengthy  way, 
I  found  a  spot  where  all  was  still, 
Just  as  the  sun  behind  the  hill 

Was  making  bright  the  parting  day. 

On  either  side  the  mountains  stood, 
Masses  of  color  rich  and  warm  ; 
And  over  them,  in  giant  form, 

The  rosy  moon  serenely  glowed. 

My  heart  was  full  as  it  could  hold  ; 

The  Buddha's  paradise  was  mine; 

My  mountain-nook  its  inmost  shrine, 
The  fretted  sky  its  roof  of  gold. 


ALL   FOR  EACH.  25 

Nirvana's  peace  my  soul  had  found,  — 
Absence  complete  of  all  desire,  — 
While  the  great  moon  was  mounting  higher 

And  deeper  quiet  breathed  around. 

VTSKILLS,  October,  1872. 

ALL   FOR   EACH. 


SIT  on  the  rocky  headland 

That  juts  from  the  queer  old  town, 
Where  the  lichen-covered  ledges 

To  meet  the  tides  run  down. 

There  are  voices  of  children  ringing 
Through  the  still  morning  air, 

And  a  lusty  cock  is  crowing, 
And,  down  on  the  water  there, 

A  single  rower  is  fretting 
The  sea  with  a  gentle  sound, 

And  the  breath  of  an  ended  summer 
Is  whispering  around. 

The  grasses  seem  to  hear  it, 
And  shudder  as  if  with  pain ; 

It  is  full  of  a  sad  foreboding 
Of  the  Johuis'  icy  reign. 


26  ALL  FOR   EACH. 

The  dories  sway  at  their  moorings, 
As  they  catch  the  fitful  breeze  ; 

And  they  sidle  against  each  other, 
As  if  themselves  to  please. 

But  'tis  only  me  they  are  pleasing,  — 
The  picture  is  all  for  me,  — 

And  the  gray  clouds  sailing  over, 
And  the  sunlight  on  the  sea ; 

And  the  white  sails  of  the  vessels, 
That  gleam  in  the  morning  sun ; 

And  the  sounds  of  far-off  labor, 
And  the  shadows  cold  and  dun ; 

And  the  butterfly,  knowing  surely 
That  summer  is  ended  for  him ; 

And  the  bee,  that  must  wander  widely 
To  fill  his  sacs  to  the  brim. 

And  mine  is  the  insect's  rapture, 
And  mine  is  the  sea-gull's  pride, 

As  he  sees  his  whiteness  mirrored 
Far  down  in  the  gleaming  tide. 

And  all  the  ships  in  the  offing, 
Outward  and  inward  bound, 

Are  mine,  and  with  my  ventures 
Go  sailing  the  world  around. 


ALL   FOR   EACH.  27 

And  these  are  but  one  day's  riches, 

The  gatherings  of  an  hour ; 
But  every  day  is  mighty, 

Each  night  is  a  night  of  power. 

For  all  of  the  brown  old  planet, 

All  of  the  deep  blue  sky, 
All  that  the  ear  can  harken, 

All  that  can  fill  the  eye, 

Is  mine  by  the  Law  of  Beauty  ; 

And  men  may  give  or  withhold, 
When  He  who  is  God  of  Beauty 

Her  secret  to  us  has  told. 

Mapblehead,  September,  1873. 


2S 


RAIN  AFTER  DROUGHT. 


RAIN   AFTER    DROUGHT. 

FEW  short  hours  ago,  and  all  the  land 
Lay  as   in   fever,  faint  and   parched  with 
drought ; 

And  so  had  lain,  while  many  a  weary  day 
Dragged  the  long  horror  of  its  minutes  out. 

The  juiceless  fruits  fell  from  the  dusty  trees ; 

The  farmer  doubted  if  the  Lord  was  good, 
As,  sad,  he  watched  the  labor  of  his  hands 

Made  useless  by  the  Day-god's  fiery  mood. 

The  hot  streets  sickened  in  the  burning  glare  ; 

The  roadsides  lost  the  glory  of  their  green  ; 
Nc  second  growth  sprang  up  to  glad  the  eye, 

Where  once  the  mower  with  his  scythe  had  been. 


A  few  short  hours  ago !     And  now,  behold, 
Freshness  and  beauty  gleam  on  every  side ; 

The  earth  has  drunk  its  fill,  and  all  about 
The  amber  pools  are  stretching  far  and  wide. 


RAIN  AFTER   DROUGHT. 


29 


A  million  drops  are  flashing  in  the  sun  ; 

The  springs  far  down  the  upper  wonder  know; 
The  farmer  laughs,  and  little  cares  how  fast 

Through  his  torn  hat  the  cooling  streamlets  flow. 

And  all  the  fields  and  pastures  seem  to  say, 

With  joyous  smile  that  I  shall  ne'er  forget, 
And  all  the  flowers  and  trees  in  chorus  join, 
"  We  knew  'twould  come  !     He  never  failed  us  vet." 


God  of  my  life,  as  God  of  all  beside, 

This  lovely  wonder,  which  Thy  hand  hath  wrought, 
Quickens  in  thought  the  mercies  manifold 

Which  Thy  great  love  into  my  soul  hath  brought. 

For  I  have  lain,  full  oft,  as  hot  and  dry 
As  ever  earth  in  summer's  fiercest  hour ; 

And  the  long  days,  slow  creeping  over  me, 
Brought  me  no  tokens  of  Thy  gracious  power. 

Then,  at  Thy  word,  down  fell  Thy  spirit-rain ; 

I  felt  its  coolness  all  my  being  through  ; 
Made  fresh  and  clean  and  joyous  every  whit, 

I  heard  the  whisper,  "  I  make  all  things  new." 

But  mine,  alas  !  was  not  the  holy  faith 

The  parched  earth  felt  through  all  her  thirsty  hours  2 
I  was  in  fear  that  never  more  again 

Should  I  be  quickened  by  the  heavenly  powers. 


i  -  r 

So  shall  it  be  no  m  :hough  I  I 

-     ne  Thou  f org-. 

_     lis  »  ad  hour, 
i  com         H  _-d  me 


1    -  HI  --RILY  blew         -oft  mid-summer  wind, 

first  had  not  left  the 

.iot  past  the  harbor-bu 
: 
: 

e  sad  and  sullen  roar 
the  |  ihat  t  r :  ke  upon  the  rocks, 

ing  the  rock-weed  madly  to  and  fro ; 
lt_-  .    :  z-rjii-i  :ht     :.:t5  z'.tiz  iz.i  y  ::: 

;:r-:::-:t: 

down, 
>ndering  what  luck  his  lines  would  h       g  ±at  day. 
Dimmer  and  dimmer  grew  th 

1       t.  iz:zzzi  :'z.t  -     '--  "  v"        ;/.-_-  :     :.t 

were  ■  .3  on-. 


K  31 

And  more  and  more  th~ 
Upon  our  spirits  such  a  subtle  charm, 
So  weird  a  spell  a-wrought  sorct  r] 

That  all  things  seemed  nge. 

S:rir.r-:  -t ::..-:  1  :/.-:  :/.y  i::v:    ir.  i  :~        _-  "     :  *t  '-- 
And  stran_  :oai 

Across  the  ba 

And  to  ourse  and,  when  our  voices  smc:t 

The  stillness,  half  t  eemed  like  voices  heard 

In  lives  long  gone,  or  lives  that  were  e, 

little  we  spoke,  an  c  of  words  oar  own  ; 

Bat  now  and  t  >me  pc 

In  that  old  time  before  we  sailed  aw: 
It  might  have  been  a  hundie 
Dream-like  grew  all  the  p£  eemed 

To  be  no' past  of  ours. 

jlii  ~r_er.  ~..\t  sir. 
Began  to  linger  towards  the  western  verg 
We  turned  our  prow  and  bade 

:  more  in  dout :  -    : 

e  land  from  which  we  once  had  sailed  away.  — 

.  whether  such  a  land  there  1 

some  baseh        hantom  of  oar  s. 

.d  when  again  we  heard  the  roa~     _  nn.. 
And  saw  the  old. 

And  the  long  curve  of  pebbly  beach  beyond, 
The  wonder  grew,  till  it  w 


32  SEA-SORCERY. 

Or  in  some  dim  gray  morning  of  the  world  ; 

Whether  some  few  brief  hours  had  flitted  by 

Between  the  morning  and  the  evening  stars, 

Or  generations  had  arrived  and  gone, 

And  states  had  fallen  'mid  the  crash  of  arms, 

And  justice  grown  more  ample  on  the  earth. 

There  sat  the  ancient,  immemorial  man, 

Tending  his  line  amid  the  boiling  surf, 

And  still  the  charm  was  not  dissolved  quite : 

So  long  had  he  been  there,  it  seemed  not  strange 

That  he  should  sit  a  thousand  years  or  more, 

Paying  no  heed  to  aught  that  passed  him  by. 

At  length  our  moorings  reached,  our  anchor  dropped, 

Amid  a  crowd  we  stood  upon  the  shore,  — 

A  crowd  whose  faces  looked  a  trifle  strange ; 

Till  from  among  them  came  a  little  child, 

And  put  her  hand  in  mine  and  lifted  up 

Her  face  for  kisses.     Then  the  charm  was  snapped  ; 

And  I  went  homeward,  glad  to  be  restored 

To  the  firm  earth  and  its  familiar  ways. 


1S76. 


THE   GOLDEN-ROBIN'S  NEST. 


33 


THE   GOLDEN-ROBIN'S   NEST. 


HE  golden-robin  came  to  build  his  nest 
High  in  the  elm-tree's  ever-nodding  crest ; 
All  the  long  day,  upon  his  task  intent, 
Backward  and  forward  busily  he  went, 


Gathering  from  far  and  near  the  tiny  shreds 
That  birdies  weave  for  little  birdies'  beds  ; 
Now  bits  of  grass,  now  bits  of  vagrant  string, 
And  now  some  queerer,  dearer  sort  of  thing. 

For  on  the  lawn,  where  he  was  wont  to  come 
In  search  of  stuff  to  build  his  pretty  home, 
We  dropped  one  day  a  lock  of  golden  hair 
Which  our  wee  darling  easily  could  spare ; 

And  close  beside  it  tenderly  we  placed 
A  lock  that  had  the  stooping  shoulders  graced 
Of  her  old  grandsire ;  it  was  white  as  snow, 
Or  cherry-trees  when  they  are  all  ablow. 


J4  THE   GOLDEN-RODIN'S  NEST. 

Then  throve  the  golden-robin's  work  apace ; 
Hundreds  of  times  he  sought  the  lucky  place 
Where  sure,  he  thought,  in  his  bird-fashion  dim, 
Wondrous  provision  had  been  made  for  him. 

Both  locks,  the  white  and  golden,  disappeared  ; 
The  nest  was  finished,  and  the  brood  was  reared  ; 
And  then  there  came  a  pleasant  summer's  day 
When  the  last  golden-robin  flew  away. 

Ere  long,  in  triumph,  from  its  leafy  height, 
We  bore  the  nest  so  wonderfully  dight, 
And  saw  how  prettily  the  white  and  gold 
Made  warp  and  woof  of  many  a  gleaming  fold. 

But  when  again  the  golden-robins  came, 
Cleaving  the  orchards  with  their  breasts  aflame, 
Grandsire's  white  locks  and  baby's  golden  head 
Were  lying  low,  both  in  one  grassy  bed. 

And  so  more  dear  than  ever  is  the  nest 
Ta'en  from  the  elm-tree's  ever  nodding  crest. 
Little  the  golden-robin  thought  how  rare 
A  thing  he  wrought  of  white  and  golden  hair  I 

July,  1874. 


TO    THE  SEA.  35 


TO   THE   SEA. 

THOU  that  art  so  nearly  infinite ! 

Lashing   thy  shores  that    drip  with  tangled 
weed ! 
Listening  to  thy  deep  voice,  another  speaks 

And  tells  me  of  the  Infinite  indeed. 


Thy  hollow  caves  are  voiceful  with  His  name, 
Whose  love  is  deeper  than  thy  deepest  place, 

Whose  inspirations  are  more  strong  and  free 
Than  the  great  storms  that  oversweep  thy  face. 

Oh,  never  time  was  yet,  since  first  He  made 
The  purple  pillars  of  thy  farthest  bound, 

That  thou  didst  cease  from  murmuring  to  the  shore. 
And  wooing  it  with  sweet  and  holy  sound. 

And  He  that  is  the  shoreless  Infinite, 
And  I  that  am  an  island  on  His  breast, 

Live  in  such  wise  that  evermore  he  woos 
My  soul  and  fills  it  with  his  great  unrest. 


3' 


RHODODENDRONS. 


And  as  I  hear  thy  voice,  may  He  my  prayer, 
That  I  may  listen  while  His  music  beats, 

And,  like  the  sea-shell,  murmur  back  again 
That  which  once  heard  it  evermore  repeats. 

So  shall  my  life  as  bravely  fashioned  be 

As  are  these  pebbles  on  thy  shining  strand ; 

So  shall  my  soul,  as  do  thy  countless  waves, 
Make  haste  to  do  His  uttermost  command. 


RHODODENDRONS. 


YOU  great  beauties,  who  can  ever  know 
How  passing  fair  you  are  to  look  upon  ! 
I,  'mid  your  glories  slowly  wandering  on, 
And  almost  faint  with  joy  that  you  can  glow 
With  hues  so  rich  and  varied,  row  on  row, 
A  corner  in  my  heart  for  him  alone 
Must  keep,  who  hath  in  your  fair  petals  shown 
Such  things  to  us  as  never  had  been  so 
Hut  for  his  loving  patience,  sweet  and  Ion-  ; 
Ay,  and  no  less  to  the  clear  eye  of  God, 
Which  never  yet  in  all  His  endless  years, 
Till  you  out-bloomed  in  colors  pure  as  song, 
Had  seen  such  fairness  springing  from  the  sod 
As  this  which  fills  our  i  yes  with  happy  tears. 


A    SEPTEMBER   GALE.  37 


A  SEPTEMBER  GALE. 

LOSE  as  a  limpet  clinging  to  the  rocks, 

Battered    and   drenched  by  the  remorseless 
gale, 

I  watch  the  wild  commotion  it  has  made, 
Through  the  dim  twilight  peering  eagerly. 
The  waves  are  running  higher  than  the  masts 
Of  the  small  craft  they  drive  so  swift  along, 
Driven  themselves  by  the  loud-cracking  whip 
Of  the  fierce  wind,  and  chasing  each  the  next 
With  foam,  like  hair,  blown  wild  before  the  blast. 
That  flying  fringe  of  foam  from  every  wave 
Is  like  the  breath  of  restless,  fiery  steeds, 
As  from  their  quivering  nostrils  it  is  driven 
'Gainst  the  hot  flanks  that  steam  just  on  before, 
When  all  the  field  is  torn  with  flying  hoofs, 
And  all  the  air  is  full  of  cheering  cries, 
A  moment  ere  the  hosts  in  battle  join. 
The  waves,  like  steeds,  are  pawing  at  the  rocks. 
And  snorting  loud  and  roaring  as  in  pain  ; 
While,  like  a  streamer  long,  the  flying  spray 


3&  A    SEPTEMBER   GALE. 

Tugs  at  the  harbor-buoy,  and  like  a  dog 

In  leash,  or  tiger  chained,  at  every  pier 

Some  vessel  strains  and  frets  and  chafes  in  vain. 

And  there  are  cries  of  quick  and  sharp  command, 

Thick-spiced  with  oaths,  borne  shoreward  on  the  wind 

From  schooners'  decks  as  they  drift  hopelessly, 

Dragging  their  anchors  at  their  cables'  length, 

To  dash,  at  last,  upon  the  pitiless  rocks 

And  strew  their  tackle  on  the  whelming  sea. 

And,  as  I  watch  the  elemental  rage, 

My  heart  is  wild  with  joy  and  ecstasy. 

Now  all  is  dark,  and  now  a  sudden  flash 
Of  lightning  from  an  ebon  mass  of  cloud 
Turns  every  crest  to  gold \  to  gold  the  masts 
Of  every  vessel  hurrying  to  her  doom  • 
To  gold  the  light-house  at  the  harbor's  mouth, 
Sending  its  steadfast  warning  o'er  the  bay ; 
And  by  that  flash  I  see,  not  far  away, 
A  woman's  face,  as  pale  as  palest  death, 
And  haggard,  too,  with  speechless  agony. 
My  joy  is  done.     O  woman,  Heaven  keep 
Thy  husband  'mid  the  smiting  of  the  seas, 
And  bring  him  safely  to  thine  arms  again. 
And  to  the  mute  caresses  of  his  babes ! 

Marblehead,  September,  1874. 


STORM  AND  SHINE.  39 


STORM    AND    SHINE. 

I. 

NOTHER  sunless,  dreary,  weary  day  ! 

How  the  poor  tree-tops  shiver  1      The  dead 
leaves 
Fall  sullenly  upon  the  rain-soaked  earth  ; 

Loud  and  more  loud  the  wild  nor'easter  grieves. 

And  can  it  be  that  ever  sunlight  shone  ? 

And  can  it  be  that  ever  skies  were  blue  ? 
And  can  it  be  that  ever  breezes  soft 

The  windward  bee  scarce  hindered  as  he  flew  ? 

And  what  if  nevermore  the  earth  should  lie 
By  the  warm  wind  enchanted  and  caressed  ? 

And  what  if  this  gray  shroud  which  now  she  wears 
Were  that  of  her  last,  long,  eternal  rest? 

II. 

Was  ever  day  so  beautiful  as  this  ? 

Was  ever  wind  so  soft,  or  sky  so  fair? 
Was  ever  grass  so  green,  and  all  the  world 

So  fresh  a   .1  pure  and  sweet  beyond  compare  ? 


40  STORM  AXP   SHINE 

How  the  glad  tree-tops  glisten  in  the  sun  ! 

How,  tilting  there,  the  robin  flings  abroad 
A  song  so  gay  that  all  the  earth  through  him 

Seems  giving  thanks  and  praises  to  our  God 

And  can  it  be  that  skies  were  ever  dark  ? 

That  sunlight  ever  was  desired  in  vain  ? 
That  ever  fell,  day  after  weary  day, 

The  hoarded  torrents  of  the  cheerless  rain? 

So  beautiful,  it  seems  it  cannot  die  ! 

Or  die  but  to  bring  others  to  their  birth,  — 
Days  fair  as  this,  that  with  unending  joy 

Shall  stir  the  pulses  of  the  happy  earth. 

Chesterfield,  18S2. 


AV  DOG-DA  VS.  4 1 


IN    DOG-DAYS. 

SEE  the  landscape  tremble  in  the  heat, 

I  hear  the  murmur  of  tire  rustling  trees  ; 
I  close  my  eyes,  and  to  myself  I  seem 
As  one  who  floats  'mid  odorous  Indian  seas. 
Scarce  draw  the  sails  in  the  dull  opiate  air ; 

Scarce  stirs  the  breeze  the  opalescent  calm  ; 
Upon  the  sleeping  islands  that  we  pass, 

Scarce  move  the  fringes  of  the  shadowy  palm. 
And,  as  I  sail,  I  seem  to  hear  the  voice 

Of  one  who  reads  some  drowsy  Eastern  tale, 
Telling  of  men  untouched  of  all  the  ills 

Which  for  our  hands  and  for  our  hearts  prevail ; 
Ay,  to  be  living  in  those  days  I  seem, 
And  in  those  days  still  dreaming  that  I  dream. 

Chesterfield,  1SS1. 


A2 


WAKEFUL. 


WAKEFUL. 

THOU  that  bringest  sweet  surcease  from  care, 
Long  have  I  sought  thy  drowsy  spell  in  vain  j 
Yet  less,  that  yonder  hoarsely-shrieking  train 
Doth  to  invade  these  sacred  precincts  dare, 
Than  that  a  thousand  images  most  fair 

Are  thronging  all  the  spaces  of  my  brain,  — ■ 
Visions  of  beauty  without  fleck  or  stain, 
Born  of  the  day's  delight  beyond  compare. 
For  once  I  chide  thee  not  that  thou  dost  stay. 

Better  than  thee  these  memories  vague  and  sweet 
Of  joys  that  filled  the  heart  of  all  the  day, 

Made  yet  more  dear  because  they  were  so  fleet, 
And  thanks  more  still  than  faintliest  whispered  prayer 
To  Him  whose  love  hath  made  the  world  so  fair. 


White  Mountains,  1875. 


MihVADNOCK.  43 


MONADNOCK. 

^E  merest  bulge  above  the  horizon's  rim 

Of  purplish  blue,  which  you  might  think  a  cloud 
Low  lying  there,  —  that  is  Monadnock  proud, 
Full  seventy  miles  away.     But  far  and  dim 
Although  it  be,  I  still  can  without  glass 
Descry,  as  I  were  standing  happy  there 
Upon  the  topmost  ledges  gray  and  bare, 
Something  which  with  the  shadows  will  not  pass,  — 
A  vision  that  abides  :  a  fair  young  girl 
Lying  her  length  j  her  hair  all  disarrayed 

By  the  bold  mountain  wind  ;  her  cheeks  aglow ; 
As  if  that  rocky  summit  should  unfurl 

A  rose  of  June  !     And  what  if  I  had  said, 
"  Thrice  fair  Monadnock  with  her  lying  so  !  " 

Chesterfield,  August  24,  1879. 


44  LEA  VE-  TA  KING. 


LEAVE-TAKING. 


;pg^g|i|HIS  is  the  trysting-place ;  from  day  to  day, 
Without  so  much  as  willing  to  be  here, 
The  laughing  hours  have  seen  me  at  thy  side, 
Because  thou  art  so  beautiful  and  dear. 


But  this  day  is  the  last.     To-morrow  morn 
Back  to  the  city's  mournful  streets  I  hie, 

There  to  be  cheated  by  the  art  of  man 
Of  God's  inheritance  of  air  and  sky. 

[Jut  oh  !  for  once  thou  art  too  beautiful ! 

Thy  beauty  makes  it  agony  to  part. 
Sea,  thou  art  cruel,  so,  on  this  last  day, 

To  try  the  weakness  of  thy  lover's  heart. 

To-day,  methinks,  thou  need'st  not  so  have  smiled. 

Like  some  proud  beauty,  full  of  high  disdain  ; 
Oh  !  hide  thy  fairness  with  some  misty  veil, 

And  lighten  so  the  burden  of  my  pain. 


"H/S   COMPASSIONS  FAIL  NOT."  45 

Nay,  do  not  hearken,  for  there  is  no  need ; 

This  sudden  rush  of  tears  will  do  as  well : 
One  more  last  look,  and  then  thy  voice  shall  sound 

As  sounds,  far  off,  some  solemn  vesper-bell. 

But  something  of  thy  freshness  in  my  heart 
Will  linger  still,  and  permanently  bless ; 

And  I  shall  hear,  'mid  things  that  come  and  go, 
The  murmur  of  thy  everlastingness. 

KITEMUER,   1S73. 


"HIS   COMPASSIONS    FAIL   NOT." 


HE  farmer  chides  the  tardy  spring, 
The  sun  withholds  his  wonted  ray, 
The  days  are  dull  and  cold  and  gray 

No  shadow  doth  the  maple  fling. 


From  snow-clad  peaks  and  icy  main, 
The  north  wind  cometh  wet  and  chill, 
And  evermore  the  clouds  distil 

The  hoarded  treasure  of  the  rain. 

But  still,  O  miracle  of  good ! 

The  crocus  springs,  the  violets  peep, 
The  straggling  vines  begin  to  creep, 

The  dandelion  gilds  the  sod. 


46  "//AS"   COMPASSIONS  FAIL   NOT:' 

The  rain  may  fall  in  constant  showers, 
The  south-wind  tarry  on  its  way ; 
But  through  the  night  and  through  the  day 

Advance  the  summer's  fragrant  hours. 

And  though  the  north-wind  force  him  back, 
The  song-bird  hurries  from  the  South, 
With  summer's  music  in  his  mouth, 

And  studs  with  songs  his  airy  track. 

What  then,  my  soul,  if  thou  must  know 
Thy  days  of  darkness,  gloom  and  cold, 
If  joy  its  ruddy  beams  withhold, 

And  grief  compels  my  tears  to  flow  ? 

And  what  if,  when  with  bended  form 
I  praise  the  gods  for  sorrows  past, 
There  ever  comes  a  fiercer  blast, 

And  darker  ruin  of  the  storm  ? 

As  tarry  not  the  flowers  of  June 
For  all  the  ill  the  heavens  can  do, 
And,  to  their  inmost  natures  true, 

The  birds  rejoice  in  sweetest  tune  : 

So,  Father,  shall  it  be  with  me  ; 

And  whether  winds  blow  foul  or  fair, 
Through  want  and  woe,  and  toil  and  care, 

Still  will  I  Struggle  up  to  Thee  j 


SEA-BORN   VENUS.  47 

That,  though  my  winter  days  be  long, 
And  brighter  skies  refuse  to  come, 
My  life  no  less  may  sweetly  bloom, 

And  none  the  less  be  full  of  song. 

Brooklyn,  1S68. 

SEA-BORN   VENUS. 

WONDER  not  men  fabled  as  they  did, 
In  that  old  rapture  of  Hellenic  days, 
Of  Venus  as  the  daughter  of  the  Sea, 
From  its  white  foam  upspringing,  full  of 
grace. 

For  I  have  watched  thy  beauty  hour  by  hour, 
Lying  at  thy  dear  side  all  hushed  and  still, 

Bidding  thee  work  on  me  thy  secret  spells, 
And  with  thy  fulness  all  my  being  fill. 

"  Ay,  sea-born  beauty,  but  how  sea-born  love  ?  " 
I  hear  the  doubter  question  and  confess. 

But  who,  still  young,  has  wandered  by  thy  side, 
The  old  Hellenic  riddle  well  may  guess. 

Thou  art  the  mother  of  all  tender  thoughts, 

Of  longings  and  of  infinite  desires  ; 
The  yearning  of  thy  never-ending  plaint 

A  kindred  yearning  in  our  souls  inspires. 


48  SEA-BORN   VENUS. 

When  youths  and  maidens  walk  thy  shining  strand, 
And  listen  to  thy  harmonies  and  hymns, 

There  is  a  mist  that  is  not  of  the  sea 

That  gathers  fast  and  all  their  vision  dims. 

Their  speech  is  silence,  but  it  tells  a  tale 

Of  that  which  makes  the  merry  world  go  round ; 

Thou  dost  interpret  for  them  every  thought 

Which,  sudden,  they  in  their  fresh  hearts  have  found 

And  so  thou  art  the  lover's  go-between ; 

So  love  that  knows  itself  is  born  of  thee ; 
And  hearts  already  pledged  become  more  fond 

While  listening  to  thy  murmurings,  O  Sea ! 

Ay,  love  is  born  of  thee,  and  deeper  love 

Than  ever  flows  to  any  human  goal,  — 
Love  of  that  Spirit  who  in  every  tide 

Hints  at  the  deeper  currents  of  the  soul. 

We  love  thee  best,  since  thou  art  type  of  Him  : 

Thou  freshening  earth  as  she  through  space  is  hurled, 

And  He,  the  ocean  of  the  universe, 

Fi  eshening  for  aye  the  courses  of  the  world. 


•872. 


"WHAT  DO  1  KNOW?"  49 


"WHAT    DO    I    KNOW  ?" 

Motto  on   Montaigne's  seal. 

PON  this  heaven-kissing  hill, 

On  this  mid-summer  day  of  days, 
That  sad  old  question  shoulders  in 

Among  my  thoughts  of  prayer  and  praise, 


What  do  I  know  ?     Not  much,  alas  ! 

Of  all  the  breadth  and  depth  and  height 
That  presses  upon  soul  and  sense 

From  day  to  day,  from  night  to  night. 

And  yet  I  know  the  light  is  sweet, 
And  pleasant  'tis  to  see  the  sun,  — 

What  time  he  climbs  the  eastern  hills, 
And  when  his  course  is  nearly  done. 

I  know  the  look  of  wind-blown  grass, 

The  quiet  rustle  of  the  corn, 
The  lusty  song  the  thrasher  sings 

To  ushei  ?n  the  glowing  morn. 


50  "WHAT  DO  I  KNOW? 

I  know  to  what  a  merry  tune 
Yon  river  ripples  on  its  way, 

And  how,  along  its  leafy  brink, 

The  drooping  branches  softly  sway. 

I  know  the  springs  that  trickle  down 
Through  many  a  rod  of  brush  and  fern, 

Divinely  cool,  nor  Zeus  himself 

Drank  better  drink  from  Hebe's  urn. 

I  know  what  fine  enchantments  lurk 
In  clouds  that  trail  their  shadows  dun 

O'er  hill  and  vale,  or  lie  at  ease 
Along  the  west  at  set  of  sun. 

I  know  the  night  is  calm  and  cool, 
And  welcome  when  the  day  is  spent , 

And  when  it  fills  the  sky  with  stars, 
Fills  all  my  soul  with  sweet  content. 

But  in  the  worlds  of  thought  and  love 
Yet  more  and  better  things  I  know 

Than  this  mid-summer  day  of  days, 
For  all  its  treasures,  has  to  show. 

1  know  that  many  friends  are  kind, 
That  many  hearts  are  fond  and  true, 

I  know  —  but  hush  !  I  may  not  tell 
The  half  I  know,  Montaigne,  to  you- 


WORKS  AND   DAYS.  5  I 

Wherefore,  0  skeptic,  go  and  try 
Your  question  in  some  other  ear ; 

I  know  enough  to  keep  my  heart 
Brimful  of  joy  from  year  to  year. 

Chesterfield,  Mass.,  July,  1875. 


WORKS   AND    DAYS. 

O  break  the  gently  undulating  sea 
With  oars  it  seems  to  fondle  lovingly, 
And  watch  the  eddies  as  they  circle  back 
Along  my  winding  track. 

To  rest  upon  my  oars,  and,  as  I  glide 
With  wind  and  current,  in  the  cooling  tide 
To  dip  my  hands,  while  something  seems  to  say 
Within  me,  "  Let  us  pray." 

As  near  as  may  be  to  the  fringed  shore 
To  keep  my  boat,  and  lean  her  gunnel  o'er, 
Watching  the  many-colored  floor,  untrod 
Save  by  the  feet  of  God. 

His  ways  are  in  the  deep ;  His  sunlight,  too, 
Pierces  its  deeps  of  shadow  through  and  through, 
And  touches  many  a  wonder  that  abides 
Below  the  lowest  tides. 


52  WORKS  AND   DAYS. 

How  beautiful  the  sunlight  on  the  sea, 
When  waves  by  millions  twinkle  as  in  glee  ! 
But  'tis  the  sunlight  in  the  sea  whose  gleam 
To  me  doth  fairest  seem. 

It  glorifies  the  pebbles  with  its  rays ; 
It  turns  gray  sand  to  perfect  chrysoprase  ; 
Plays  with  the  amber  tresses  of  the  rocks 
As  with  a  maiden's  locks. 

Anon  in  some  sequestered  nook  I  lie, 
And  see  the  yachts,  white-winged,  go  sailing  by, 
And  feel,  whichever  quickest  onward  flies, 
Mine  is  the  truest  prize. 

I  watch  the  race  with  neither  hope  nor  fear, 
Since  none  than  other  is  to  me  more  clear ; 
My  prize  the  perfect  beauty  of  the  sight,  — 
Unselfish,  pure  delight. 

I  sit  and  wonder  what  the  cliffs  would  say 
If  they  could  speak,  remembering  the  day 
When  first,  "Thus  far,  no  farther,"  it  was  said  ; 
"  Here  thy  proud  waves  be  stayed  !  " 

Since  then  what  laughter  and  what  cry  and  moan 
The  sea  lias  offered  up  to  them  alone  ! 
What  suns  have  kissed,  what  storms  have  left  their 
blight! 
What  silence  of  the  night! 


WORKS  AND  DAYS.  53 

So  wondering,  how  strange  it  is  and  still, 
Save  where,  a  mile  away,  the  drogers  fill 
Their  battered  dories  with  the  shingly  store 
Of  the  long-hoarding  shore  ! 

That  far-off  sound  is  but  a  gauge  that  tells 
How  deep  the  silence  is  ;  like  Sunday  bells 
Which,  ringing,  tell  the  resting  village  o'er 
How  still  it  was  before. 

These  are  my  works  and  days  :  in  these  I  drown 
The  cares  and  troubles  of  the  noisy  town, 
And  let  it  seethe  and  rumble  as  it  may, 
Day  after  weary  day. 

But  when  the  summer  days  are  sweetly  fled, 
And  great  fall  clouds  go  floating  overhead  ; 
When  asters  lurk  along  the  pleasant  ways 
With  golden-rod  ablaze  ; 

Then  I  will  back  again  to  faces  see 
Than  all  these  sights  more  beautiful  to  me  ; 
Where  friendliest  voices  wait  for  me  to  hear, 
Than  all  these  sounds  more  dear. 

Marblehead,  187 1. 


54  CROW'S  NEST. 


CROW'S    NEST. 

UILDING  our  beacon  fire,  we  spread  our  feast 
On  the  bare  cliff  high  up  against  the  sky ; 
Eastward  a  few  lone  clouds  went  sailing  by, 
As  more  and  more  the  sunset  glow  increased, 
And  every  sound  of  bird  and  leaf  had  ceased ; 
Far  down  below,  we  could  the  stream  espy, 
Seeming  at  rest  all  motionless  to  lie ; 
And  life  from  every  burden  seemed  released. 
Range  beyond  range,  we  saw  the  wooded  heights ; 

And  far  away,  backed  against  paly  gold, 
Their  rightful  lords  —  unspeakable  delights  !  — 

Their  purple  splendor  sturdily  uphold, 
While   climbing  slow,  the  moon  and  eve's  first  star 
Led  every  thought  to  heights  more  cool  and  far. 

White  Mountains,  1875. 


IN  JUNE. 


55 


IN   JUNE. 


M 


1  show  you  a  mystery. 


»> 


FRIEND,  your  face  I  cannot  see, 

Your  voice  I  cannot  hear, 
But  for  us  both  breaks  at  our  feet 
The  flood-tide  of  the  year;  — 
The  summer-tide  all  beautiful 

With  fragrance,  and  with  song 
Sung  by  the  happy-hearted  birds 
To  cheer  the  months  along. 

And  so  the  mystery  I  show 

Is  this,  all  simple-sweet : 
Because  God's  summer-tide  so  breaks 

At  yours  and  at  my  feet, 
We're  not  so  very  far  apart 

As  it  at  first  would  seem  ; 
We're  near  each  other  in  the  Lord; 

The  miles  are  all  a  dream. 


June  19,  1873. 


56  A    SONG  FOR    THE  HARVEST. 


A    SONG    FOR   THE    HARVEST. 


OME,  list  to  a  song  for  the  Harvest : 
Thanksgiving  and  honor  and  praise 
For  all  that  the  bountiful  Giver 
Hath  given  to  gladden  our  days. 


For  the  grain  and  the  corn  in  their  plenty, 
For  the  grapes  that  were  gathered  with  song  ; 

For  pumpkins  so  brave  with  their  yellow, 
They  had  lived  upon  sunbeams  so  long ; 

For  cranberries  down  in  the  meadow, 

And  the  buckwheat  that  flames  on  the  hill, 

And  blueberries  tempting  the  children 
To  wander  and  pick  them  at  will  ; 

For  the  peaches  that  blush  through  their  pallor, 

Or  glow  like  a  pretty  quadroon, 
As  they  dream  of  the  sun  in  the  morning, 

Or  welcome  his  kisses  at  noon  ; 


A   SONG   FOR    THE  HARVEST.  57 

For  the  sweet-smelling  hay  and  the  clover, 
That  sweeten  the  breath  of  the  kine  ; 

And  the  apples  that  lingered,  as  dreading 
The  air  and  the  light  to  resign. 

And  not  for  the  fruit-harvest  only 
We  offer  our  thanks  and  our  praise ; 

Not  less  have  the  leaves  and  the  blossoms 
Made  better  and  brighter  the  days. 

The  leaves  that  delight  with  their  greenness, 
That  soften  the  heat  with  their  shade, 

And  rustle  so  crisply  in  Autumn, 
To  startle  the  lover  and  maid. 

For  the  blossoms  that  whiten  in  May-time 
The  ground,  as  with  snow,  as  they  fall ; 

For  the  flowerets  that  whisper  their  meanings 
In  cottage  and  hovel  and  hall. 

Ay,  thanks  for  the  harvest  of  Beauty ! 

For  that  which  the  hands  cannot  hold ! 
The  harvest  eyes  only  can  gather, 

Which  only  our  hearts  can  enfold  ! 

We  have  reaped  it  on  mountain  and  moorland  ; 

We  have  gleaned  it  from  meadow  and  lea ; 
We  have  garnered  it  in  from  the  cloudlands ; 

We  have  bound  it  in  sheaves  from  the  sea. 


58  A    SONG   FOR    THE  HAKVES'l. 

And  thanks  that  the  whole  of  the  harvest 

Is  not  for  the  children  of  men  ; 
That  the  birds  and  the  beasts  are  remembered. 

The  dwellers  in  river  and  fen  ; 

That  Hegiveth  them  meat  in  due  season, 
And  heareth  their  cry  when  they  call,  — 

The  tiniest,  weakest  among  them, 
The  hugest  and  strongest  of  all. 

But  the  song  it  goes  deeper  and  higher ; 

There  are  harvests  which  eye  cannot  see : 
They  ripen  on  mountains  of  Duty, 

They  are  reaped  by  the  brave  and  the  free. 

And  these  have  been  gathered  and  garnered : 
Some  golden  with  honor  and  gain, 

And  some  as  with  heart's-blood  made  ruddy, 
The  harvests  of  sorrow  and  pain. 

Alas,  for  our  pitiful  singing ! 

For  all  it  has  lasted  so  long, 
The  half  of  our  rapture  and  wonder 

Has  not  been  expressed  in  our  song. 

But  He  who  is  Lord  of  the  Harvest  — 
The  Giver  who  gladdens  our  clays  — 
Will  know  if  our  hearts  are  repeating, 
Thanksgiving  and  honor  and  praise. 
1871 


\  V IV-MA IDENS.  5  9 


SNOW-MAIDENS. 


JM  WINTER  day  upon  the  hill 
'^- v?4  Where  we  our  summer  joyance  took, 

|5|     And  all  things  to  our  pleasure  bent 


As  willows  to  a  wind  in  a  brook. 


B 


And  there,  upon  the  spot  that  knew 
Of  baby  joy  and  maiden  grace, 

Whirling  about  in  ghostly  dance, 
Are  creatures  of  another  race. 

Tall,  pale,  and  wonderfully  fair, 

The  chilly  sunlight  through  them  shines  : 
They  dance  with  interwoven  curves  ; 

They  move  in  wavy,  mystic  lines. 

Weird  sisterhood,  your  secret  tell  ! 

Are  ye  the  ghosts  of  vanished  days, — 
Of  joys  that  will  no  more  return, 

Of  summers  sweeter  than  all  praise,  — 

Of  hours  when  earth  and  heaven  seemed 
To  meet  and  touch  and  interblend, 

And,  face  to  face,  we  talked  with  God, 
As  friend  most  dear  with  dearest  friend? 


60  A    SONNET  FOR    THE  DAW 

O  foolish  heart,  be  not  afraid. 

No  plaint,  but  prophecy,  is  here  ; 
The  spring  shall  come,  and  Life  and  Love 

Shall  crown  another  golden  year. 

Chesterfield,  1S79. 


A   SONNET   FOR   THE    DAY 

FOR    WHICH    A    WEATHER-PROPHET    HAD    PREDICTED    A    TERRIFIC 

STORM. 

STORM  of  sunshine  !     How  it  plays  and  beats 
On  the  chill  gardens  and  the  frozen  sods  ! 
How  the  blue  heaven  seems  as  if  the  gods 
Of  old  with  nectarous  and  ambrosial  sweets 
Made  holiday  !     How  the  very  streets, 

Where  fashion  pours  and  weary  labor  plods, 
Seem  to  laugh  out  !     What  !     Is  't  the  golden-rod 
Midsummer  splendor  that  my  vision  greets? 

Nay,  't  is  the  golden  sunshine.     There  is  naught 
That  can  withstand  its  gracious  power. 
The  winter's  reign  is  broken  from  this  hour, 
And  all  its  tenors  are  to  nothing  brought. 
O  heart,  my  heart,  greel  thou  the  opening  year. 
Sine  with  the  birds  and  make  a  sweeter  cheer  ! 

March  9,  i 


BALD-CAP   REVISITED.  6l 


BALD-CAP    REVISITED. 


LEVEN  years,  and  two  fair  months  beside, 
Full  to  the  brim  with  various  love  and  joy, 
My  life  has  known  since  last  I  drew  apart 
Into  this  huge  sky-shouldering  mountain  dome, 
And,  listening,  heard  the  winds  among  the  pines 
Making  a  music  as  of  countless  choirs, 
Chanting  in  sweet  and  solemn  unison ; 
And,  standing  here  where  God's  artificers, 
Angels  of  frost  and  fire  and  sun  and  storm, 
Have  made  a  floor  with  nameless  gems  inlaid, 
Saw,  like  a  roof,  the  slopes  of  living  green 
Go  cleaving  down  to  meet  the  lower  hills,  — 
Firm-buttressed  walls,  their  bases  over-grown 
With  meadow-sweet  and  ferns  and  tangled  vines, 
And  all  that  makes  the  road-sides  beautiful ; 
While,  all  around  me,  other  domes  arose, 
Girded  with  towers  and  eager  pinnacles, 
Into  the  silent  and  astonished  air. 
Full  oft,  since  then,  up-looking  from  below, 
As  naught  to  me  has  been  the  pleasantness 
Of  meadows  broad,  and,  'mid  them,  flowing  wide 
The  Androscoggin's  dark  empurpled  stream, 


62  BALD-CAP  REVISITED. 

Enamoured  of  thine  awful  loveliness, 

Thy  draperies  of  forests  overspread 

With  shadows  and  with  silver}*,  shining  mists, 

Thy  dark  ravines  and  cloud-conversing  top, 

Where  it  would  almost  seem  that  one  might  hear 

The  talk  of  angels  in  the  happy  blue  ;  — 

And  so,  in  truth,  my  heart  has  heard  to-day. 

Dear  sacred  Mount,  not  thine  alone  the  charm 
By  which  thou  dost  so  overmaster  me, 
But  something  in  thy  lover's  beating  heart, 
Something  of  memories  vague  and  fond  and  sweet, 
Something  of  what  he  cannot  be  again, 
Something  of  sharp  regret  for  vanished  joys, 
And  faces  that  he  may  no  more  behold, 
And  voices  that  he  listens  for  in  vain, 
And  feet  whose  welcome  sound  he  hears  no  more, 
And  hands  whose  touch  could  make  his  being  thrill 
With  love's  dear  rapture  of  delicious  pain,  — 
Something  of  all  the  vears  that  he  has  lived, 
Of  all  the  joy  and  sorrow  he  has  known, 
Since  first  with  eager  feet  and  heart  aflame 
He  struggled  up  thy  steep  and  shaggy  sides, 
Sun-flecked,  leaf-shaded  realms  of  life  in  death, 
And  stood,  as  now,  upon  thy  topmost  crest, 
Trembling  with  joy  and  tender  unto  tears  ;  — 
Something  of  all  these  things  mingles  with  thee,  — 
Green  of  thy  leaves  and  whiteness  of  thy  clouds, 


BALD-CAP   REVISITED,  63 

Rush  of  thy  streams  and  rustle  of  thy  pines,  — 

With  all  thy  strength  and  all  thy  tenderness, 

Till  thou  art  loved  not  for  thyself  alone, 

But  for  the  love  of  many  who  are  gone, 

And  most  of  all  for  one  who  still  remains 

To  make  all  sights  more  fair,  all  sounds  more  sweet, 

All  life  more  dear  and  glad  and  wonderful. 

Eleven  years,  and  thou  so  little  changed ! 
No  change  but  what  the  changing  season  brings ; 
For  then,  in  June,  thou  wast  all  greenery  ; 
Now,  in  September,  thou  art  turning  sere, 
Or  hanging  many  a  leafy  banner  out, 
Blazoned  with  gold  ;  and  'mid  the  sombre  rows 
Of  priest-like  pines,  along  thy  forest  aisles, 
Gleams  here  and  there  a  red-cloaked  cardinal ; 
And  old  decay  is  covered  everywhere 
With  the  fresh-fallen  leaves,  making  such  show 
As  never  caliph  with  his  floors  entiled 
With  warmest-hued  and  shapeliest  arabesques. 
Thou  hast  not  changed.     As  it  were  yesterday 
I  stood  upon  thy  moss-grown  parapet, 
Familiar  seems  each  lightning-splintered  crag, 
Each  slope  that  shimmers  in  the  sunny  wind, 
Each  outer  court  through  which  with  crackling  tread 
I  pressed  into  thy  presence-chamber  vast, 
And  dared  to  sit  upon  thy  sculptured  throne. 
Still  through  the  broad  and  grassy  intervale 


64  HALD-CAP  REVISITED. 

The  river  into  which  thy  torrents  run 

Flows  swiftly  on,  setting  with  amethyst 

Full  many  a  little  emerald-tinted  isle, 

Past  many  a  pebbly,  drought-discovered  shoal, 

And  over  many  a  shallow,  rippling  ford, 

For  ever  singing  as  it  hurries  by, 

Impatient  to  be  mingled  with  the  sea. 

And  still  on  every  side  stand  reaching  up 

Into  the  blue,  illimitable  air 

Thy  huge,  sky-cleaving,  cloud-compelling  peers, 

Baring  their  knotted  bosoms  to  the  sun. 

Still,  as  of  yore,  the  shadows  troop  adown 

Their  mighty  slopes,  or  ever  deeper  grow 

Amid  the  brawn  of  every  dark  ravine. 

Thou  art  not  changed ;  the  same  from  year  to  year 

Are  all  thy  great  and  dear  companions. 

There  comes  to  thee  no  morn  when  thou  dost  miss 

This  one  or  that  from  his  accustomed  place, 

And  watch  in  vain  for  him  to  come  again. 

Would  it  were  so  with  me  !     But,  as  I  gaze 

Abroad  upon  thy  stalwart  brotherhood, 

A  dimness  comes,  which  is  not  of  the  hills, 

Between  me  and  their  everlastingness, 

To  think  that  since  I  hailed  thy  glory  first 

So  many  of  my  mates  have  gone  away 

Beyond  the  misty  mountain-tops  of  death, 

That  well-nigh  for  each  peak  I  count  a  grave. 

Fades  out  the  valley's  peace,  the  purple  glow 


BALD-CAP   REVISITED.  6$ 

That  now  begins  to  bathe  the  distant  hills, 

And  in  their  stead  I  see  the  faces  strong 

And  sweet  of  dear  ones  whom  I  shall  not  meet  again 

Until  I  bid  my  last  farewell  to  thee. 

Dear,  mighty  friend,  oh  deem  not  that  I  chide 
Aught  thou  hast  done  to  make  thyself  appear 
Spectral  and  dim,  and  with  thee  all  thy  kin, 
And  nothing  real  but  those  faces  pure 
That  in  the  infinite  space  of  heart  and  mind 
Press  cheek  to  cheek,  so  dense  the  angel-throng  ; 
As  in  the  backgrounds  Raphael  loved  to  paint 
For  Mary  and  her  wonder-gifted  child : 
No  other  service  thou  couldst  render  me 
Would  seem  so  tender  and  so  good  as  this. 
Yet  were  my  heart  ungrateful  if  alone 
Of  vanished  joys  I  heard  the  solemn  voice 
Of  all  thy  sounds  and  all  thy  silences 
Soft-speaking,  here,  as  hour  succeeds  to  hour, 
Each  than  the  last  more  rare  and  mystical. 
"  Though  much  has  gone,"  thou  say'st,  "  since  first  I  tiied 
Thy  youthful  strength  with  rigors  all  unknown, 
How  much  remains !     How  much  is  now  thine  own 
Which  then  thou  hadst  no  knowledge  of  or  dream  ! 
What  joy  of  friends  and  books,  and  perfect  days 
When  earth  to  heaven  seemed  nearer  than  its  wont ; 
What  sacred  hours  of  high  companionship  ; 
What  deeper  love  where  love  was  rife  before  ; 


66  BALD-CAP  REVISITED. 

What  faces  and  what  voices  from  the  void, 
Shaping  themselves  for  thee  to  bend  and  kiss, 
Rounding  themselves  for  thee  to  list  and  hear  ; 
What  deeper  sense  of  all  the  mystery 
In  which  thou  liest  embosomed  evermore  !  " 

Thou  sayest  this  ?     Nay,  'tis  no  voice  of  thine. 
Not  to  remember  either  loss  or  gain 
Do  thy  enchantments  lure  the  hearts  of  men. 
'Tis  their  device  to  use  thy  beetling  crags 
For  rock-hewn  stairs,  by  which  they  may  ascend 
To  secret  shrines  of  memory  and  prayer. 
'Tis  thine  to  make  them  lose  themselves  in  thee  ; 
Ay,  to  forget  their  individual  life, 
And  feel  themselves  but  parts  of  that  which  breathes 
With  thy  sweet-scented  breath  of  trees  that  sway 
And  rustle  in  the  wind ;  of  that  which  creeps 
In  every  lichen's  slow  and  noiseless  tread, 
Or  warms  thy  heart  with  ardors  of  the  sun. 
Sleep,  mind  and  heart,  and  let  the  body  wake 
And  every  sense  with  speechless  rapture  thrill. 
Full  soon,  somehow,  God's  wondrous  alchemy 
The  senses'  joy  shall  turn  to  spirit's  praise  , 
Seeing  that  soul  and  sense  are  not  at  war, 
But  each  the  other's  gentle  servitor. 
I  )rink  deep,  O  sense,  and  there  shall  come  a  day 
When  heart  and  soul  shall  share  thy  freshening. 
And  for  this  perfect  peace  in  which  I  lie, 


BALD-CAP  REVISITED.  67 

Bathing  myself  in  heaven's  upper  air, 
Curtained  with  clouds,  with  carpets  for  my  feet 
Such  as  the  proudest  sultan  could  not  buy 
With  all  the  hoarded  wealth  of  centuries,  — 
For  this  I  know,  that  when  —  no,  not  too  soon  — 
Again  I  thread  the  city's  crowded  ways, 
And  mingle  with  its  mighty  swarm  of  men, 
And  bend  myself  to  do  the  tasks  I  love, 
I  shall  with  stouter  heart  and  firmer  mind 
Pursue  my  way ;  sustained  by  greater  hopes  ; 
Cheered  by  a  deeper  faith  in  all  the  world, 
And  a  more  loving  trust,  my  God,  in  Thee. 

Shelburne,  N.H.,  Sept.  1876. 


r>S  LOST  AND  FOUND. 


LOST   AND    FOUND. 

HERE  have  they  gone,  the  happy  summer  days, 
With  all  their  loveliness  of  earth  and  sky, 
Which  we  have  seen  so  gayly  passing  by, 
Till  now  the  last  a  moment  more  delays  ? 

Whither  have  fled  their  mornings  cool  and  sweet  ? 

Whither  their  dreamy  haze  of  highest  noon  ? 

Whither  their  sunset  glories,  and  the  croon 
Of  many  waters  murmurously  fleet? 

O  friends,  dear  friends,  who  have  been  with  me  here. 
To-night,  for  all  the  miles  that  intervene, 
There  is  no  inch  of  space  our  hearts  between  ; 

Come  hark  with  me  a  voice  of  hope  and  cheer. 

These  summer  days,  that  have  so  sweetly  fled, 
Have  their  Avallon,  wherein  they  abide, 
Like  good  King  Arthur  after  he  had  died, 

Or  seemed  to  die,  when  still  he  was  not  dead. 


LOST  AND   FOUND.  69 

It  is  a  quiet  place  within  the  heart, 

Where  they  live  on  for  many  an  after  day, 
Blessing  alike  our  labor  and  our  play  ; 

And  nevermore  from  us  do  they  depart. 

And  when  we  know  not  why  we  are  so  gay, 
And  when  we  laugh,  nor  know  the  reason  why, 
God  sees  in  us  a  gleam  of  summer  sky, 

Or  hears  some  brook  go  laughing  on  its  way. 

And  so  in  you  I  know  God  keeps  for  me 
The  sweetness  of  the  unreturning  days, 
Safe  from  all  harm  and  better  than  all  praise  : 

Be  mine,  at  least,  such  immortality. 

September  3,  1880. 


POEMS   OF   LIFE   AND   LOVE. 


POEMS    OF    LIFE    AND    LOVE. 


TETE-A-TETE. 

I. 

BIT  of  ground,  a  smell  of  earth, 
A  pleasant  murmur  in  the  trees, 
The  chirp  of  birds,  an  insect's  hum, 
And,  kneeling  on  their  chubby  knees, 

Two  neighbors'  children  at  their  play  ; 

Who  has  not  seen  a  hundred  such  ? 
A  head  of  gold,  a  head  of  brown, 

Bending  together  till  they  touch. 

u. 

A  country  school-house  by  the  road, 

A  spicy  scent  of  woods  anear, 
And  all  the  air  with  summer  sounds 

Laden  for  who  may  care  to  hear. 

So  care  not  two,  a  boy  and  girl, 

Who  stay  when  all  the  rest  are  gone, 

Solving  a  problem  deeper  far 

Than  one  they  seem  intent  upon. 


74  TETE-A-TETE. 

Dear  hearts,  of  course  they  do  not  know 
How  near  their  heads  together  lean. 

The  bee  that  wanders  through  the  room 
Has  hardly  space  to  go  between. 


in. 


Now  darker  is  the  head  of  brown, 
The  head  of  gold  is  brighter  now, 

And  lines  of  deeper  thought  and  life 
Are  written  upon  either  brow. 

The  sense  that  thrilled  their  being  through 
With  nameless  longings  vast  and  dim 

Has  found  a  voice,  has  found  a  name, 
And  where  he  goes  she  follows  him. 

Again  their  heads  are  bending  near, 
And  bending  down  in  silent  awe 

Above  a  morsel  pure  and  sweet, 
A  miracle  of  love  and  law. 

How  often  shall  their  heads  be  bowed 
With  joy  or  grief,  with  love  and  pride, 

As  waxeth  strong  that  feeble  life, 
Or  slowly  ebbs  its  falling  tide  1 


TETE-A-TETE.  75 


1875. 


IV. 


A  seaward  hill  where  lie  the  dead 

In  dreamless  slumber  deep  and  calm  \ 

Above  their  graves  the  roses  bloom, 
And  all  the  air  is  full  of  balm. 

They  do  not  smell  the  roses  sweet ; 

They  do  not  see  the  ships  that  go 
Along  the  far  horizon's  edge ; 

They  do  not  feel  the  breezes  blow. , 

Here  loving  hands  have  gently  laid 
The  neighbors'  children,  girl  and  boy, 

And  man  and  wife  ;  head  close  to  head 
They  sleep,  and  know  nor  pain  nor  joy. 


76  THE   GATE   CALLED  BEAUTIFUL. 


THE   GATE   CALLED    BEAUTIFUL. 


"And  they  brought  a  man,  lame  from  his  birth,  and  laid  him  daily  at  the  gate 
of  the  temple  which  is  called  Beautiful." 


AME  from  his  birth ;  and  who  is  not  as  much, 

Though  in  his  body  he  be  stout  and  strong  j 
And  in  his  mind  an  athlete  for  the  truth  ; 
In  conscience,  too,  a  giant  against  wrong  ? 


For  who  that  guesses  what  a  man  may  be, 
In  all  his  powers  and  graces  how  divine, 

And  then  bethinks  him  of  the  thing  he  is,  — 
So  far  below  that  glory,  God,  of  thine,  — 

Though  he  were  greatest  of  the  sons  of  men, 
"  Why  callest  thou  me  good  ?  "  he  still  would  say 

And  all  the  heights  already  won  would  point 
To  higher  peaks  along  the  heavenly  way. 

Lame  from  our  birth  ;  and  daily  we  are  brought, 
And  at  the  gate  called  Beautiful  are  laid  : 

Sometimes  its  wonder  makes  us  free  and  glad ; 
Sometimes  its  grandeur  makes  us  half  afraid. 


THE   GATE    CALLED   BEAUTIFUL,  77 

The  gate  called  Beautiful ;  and  yet  methinks 
No  word  can  name  it  that  begins  to  tell 

How  soar  its  pillars  to  the  highest  heavens, 
And  how  their  roots  take  hold  on  lowest  hell. 

With  what  designs  its  panels  are  inwrought, 

O'ertraced  with  flowers  and  hills  and  shining  seas, 

And  glorified  by  rise  and  set  of  suns, 

And  Junes  of  blossom  and  October  trees ! 

So  beautiful,  yet  never  quite  the  same ! 

The  pictures  change  with  every  changing  hour ; 
Or  sweeter  things  come  stealing  into  view, 

Which  stronger  things  had  hidden  by  their  power. 

There  all  the  stars  and  systems  go  their  way ; 

There  shines  the  moon  so  tender  in  her  grace ; 
And  there,  than  moon  or  star  or  sun  more  fair, 

The  blessed  wonder  of  the  human  face. 

Faces  and  faces  !  some  of  children  sweet ; 

And  some  of  maidens  fresh  and  pure  and  true ; 
And  some  that  lovelier  are  at  evening  time 

Than  any  can  be  while  the  years  are  few. 

This  is  the  gate  called  Beautiful \  it  swings 
To  music  sweeter  than  was  heard  that  day 

When  St.  Cecilia,  rapt  in  ecstasy, 

Heard  through  her  trance  the  angelic  roundelay. 


78  THE  GATE   CALLED  BEAUTIFUL. 

Music  of  little  children  at  their  play ; 

Of  mothers  hushing  them  to  sleep  and  dreams ; 
Of  all  the  birds  that  sing  in  all  the  trees, 

Of  all  the  murmuring  of  all  the  streams. 

And  at  this  gate,  not  at  wide  intervals, 
Are  we,  lame  from  our  birth,  laid  tenderly, 

But  daily ;  and  not  one  day  passes  by 
And  we  look  not  upon  this  mystery. 

Gate  of  the  Temple  ?  surely  it  is  that ! 

It  opens  not  into  vacuity  ; 
For  all  its  beauty,  it  is  not  so  fair 

But  that  a  greater  beauty  there  can  be. 

Thy  beauty,  O  my  Father !     All  is  Thine  ; 

But  there  is  beauty  in  Thyself,  from  whence 
The  beauty  Thou  hast  made  doth  ever  flow 

In  streams  of  never-failing  affluence. 

Thou  art  the  Temple  !  and  though  I  am  lame,  — 
Lame  from  my  birth,  and  shall  be  till  I  die,  — 

I  enter  through  the  gate  called  Beautiful, 

And  am  alone  with  Thee,  O  Thou  Most  High ! 


1872. 


REAL   AND   IDEAL.  79 


REAL   AND    IDEAL. 

OOKING  athwart  the  valley's  cleft, 
S?       Where  nestles  many  a  cosey  farm 
Beside  the  stream  whose  music  low 
For  ever  keeps  its  ancient  charm, 

For  one  I  love,  who,  young  and  gay, 
Full  often  wandered  by  its  side, 

Floating  his  wayward  fancies  down 
To  the  great  sea  upon  its  tide,  — 

Looking  through  dreamy,  half-shut  eyes 
Across  to  where  the  shining  mist 

Bathed  all  the  woods  and  uplands  dim 
With  purple  and  with  amethyst; 

I  said,  Why  do  we  linger  thus 

Where  all  is  sharp  and  bright  and  clear  ? 
Seek  we  the  pleasant  land  beyond, 

And  taste  of  its  enchantments  dear. 


80  REAL   AND  IDEAL. 

Agreed ;  and  soon  our  faithful  grays 
Were  plunging  down  the  hill-side  steep, 

Where  over  lichen-crinkled  walls 

The  tangled  thickets  nod  and  creep  ; 

And  past  the  spring  that  trickles  down 

Through  ledges  thick  with  brush  and  furze, 

Where  aspens  show  their  silver  pomp 
And  chestnuts  drop  their  prickly  burrs  ; 

And  o'er  the  little  rattling  bridge 

That  spans  the  pebbly,  murmurous  stream, 

And  on  into  the  land  that  seemed 
The  mystic  shadow  of  a  dream 

And  what  to  find  ?     The  smell  of  hay 

New-mown,  and  gleam  of  mowers'  scythes, 

And  purple  milkweed  hardly  seen 
For  troops  of  golden  butterflies  ; 

And  many  a  pleasant  upland  farm, 
And  many  a  sun-browned  little  maid, 

And  patient  cattle  half  asleep 

In  many  a  maple's  plenteous  shade ; 

All  this  and  more  ;  but  here  nor  there 

One  atom  of  the  tender  mist 
That,  from  afar,  had  clothed  the  land 

With  purple  and  with  amethyst. 


A    VINDICATION. 


81 


But  looking  backward  to  the  hills 
Which  we  had  left  an  hour  before, 

Behold  the  charm  we  came  to  seek 
Was  there  !     Down-folded  softly  o'er 

Each  dear  familiar  place  it  lay,  — 

The  violet-tinted  mystic  haze  ; 
And  there  had  lain,  hour  after  hour, 

Through  the  long,  sweet,  mid-summer  days; 

While  we,  in  all  its  splendor  clad, 

In  Tyrian  dyes  right  royally, 
Had  deemed  that  we  must  seek  afar 

Its  perfect  grace  and  mystery. 

Chesterfield,  Mass.,  July  19,  1876. 


A   VINDICATION. 


HO  (J  art  not  proud  because  thou  art  so 
beautiful. 
'Tis  falsely  said.     Thou  art  but  glad  of  heart 
To  feel  thy  glorious  beauty  is  a  part 
Of  all  the  beauty  that  is  anywhere, 
On  land  or  sea  or  in  the  gleaming  air  : 

Such  gladness  is  less  proud  than  dutiful. 


1876. 


82  THE   OVER-SOUL. 


THE   OVER-SOUL. 

DLING  one  day  in  June,  my  aimless  feet, 
Forbidden,  crossed  the  threshold  of  that  fane 
By  grateful  Harvard  built  for  her  dear  slain, 
Whom  Freedom  counted  for  her  service  meet. 


Above  me  rose  the  glorious  sheaf  of  towers, 
As  on  the  snowy  tablets,  slow,  I  read 
The  names  of  all  the  generous-hearted  dead, 

Who  were  our  chivalry's  most  perfect  flowers. 

There  were  the  names  of  men  whom  all  the  land 
Hailed  as  the  greatest  in  those  dreadful  days ; 
There,  too,  their  names  whose  only  meed  of  praise 

Was  the  deep  sense  of  doing  God's  command. 

And  one  I  read,  which  oft  I  used  to  speak 

In  loving-wise,  as  friend  doth  speak  with  friend  : 
Brave,  ardent  spirit !  wheresoever  tend 

Thy  restless  feet,  thou  dost  the  highest  seek. 


THE   OVER-SOUL.  83 

And,  as  I  gazed,  with  dimmer  sight  I  saw 
Upon  rude  stagings  high  above  my  head 
The  workmen  painting  words  that  shall  be  read 

Through  countless  years  of  Liberty  and  Law;  — 

Resounding  words  of  that  melodious  tongue 
Which  still  doth  with  the  pomp  of  Virgil  swell ; 
But  nought  of  all  their  meaning  could  they  tell, 

Who  on  the  wall  their  various  colors  flung. 

And  some  there  were  who  worked  in  sombre  hues, 
While  others  bravely  did  illuminate 
With  red  and  gold  some  word  of  greater  weight ; 

But  all  alike  the  meaning  all  did  lose. 

Behold,  I  thought,  a  parable  of  those 

Whose  names  are  graven  on  these  tablets  cold ; 
They  did  their  work,  yet  little  could  have  told 

Of  meanings  vast  which  only  Heaven  knows. 

Behold,  I  thought,  a  parable  of  all 

Who  do  men's  work  upon  this  mortal  strand  ; 

Great  meanings  which  they  cannot  understand, 
They  paint  and  grave  on  Time's  memorial  wall. 

There  are  who  work  in  colors  dull  and  cold  ; 

There  are  who  work  in  characters  of  flame  : 

It  matters  not,  the  glory  is  the  same  ; 
For  only  thus  the  tale  is  fitly  told, 


84 


CARTE   DIEM. 


Which  He  can  read  who  builds  all  seas  above 
So  strong  that  nothing  can  destroy  or  mar, 
In  every  sun,  in  every  circling  star, 

The  everlasting  temple  of  His  love. 

Cambridge,  1874. 


CARPE   DIEM. 


SOUL  of  mine,  how  few  and  short  the  years 
Ere  thou  shalt  go  the  way  of  all  thy  kind, 
And  here  no  more  thy  joy  or  sorrow  find 
At  any  fount  of  happiness  or  tears ! 
Yea,  and  how  soon  shall  all  that  thee  endears 
To  any  heart  that  beats  with  love  for  thee 
Be  everywhere  forgotten  utterly, 
With  all  thy  loves  and  joys,  and  hopes  and  fears ! 
But,  O  my  soul,  because  these  things  are  so, 
Be  thou  not  cheated  of  to-day's  delight. 
When  the  night  cometh,  it  may  well  be  night ; 
Now  it  is  day.     See  that  no  minute's  glow 
Of  all  the  shining  hours  unheeded  goes  ; 
No  fount  of  rightful  joy  by  thee  untasted  flows. 


1876. 


"WHY  THIS   WASTE?"  85 


"WHY   THIS    WASTE?" 

HAT  eyes  which  pierced  our  inmost  being 
through ; 
That  lips  which  pressed  into  a  single  kiss, 
It  seemed,  a  whole  eternity  of  bliss ; 
That  cheeks  which  mantled  with  love's  rosy  hue  ; 
That  feet  which  wanted  nothing  else  to  do 
But  run  upon  love's  errands,  this  and  this ; 
That  hands  so  fair  they  had  not  seemed  amiss 
Reached  down  by  angels  through  the  deeps  of  blue  ; 
That  all  of  these  so  deep  in  earth  should  lie 
While  season  after  season  passeth  by ; 

That  things  which  are  so  sacred  and  so  sweet 
The  hungry  roots  of  tree  and  plant  should  eat  1 
Oh  for  one  hour  to  see  as  Thou  dost  see, 
My  God,  how  great  the  recompense  must  be ! 


1874. 


86  THE   GREATEST   WONDER 


THE   GREATEST   WONDER 


O  pleasantly  the  fleeting  days  go  by, 

So  much  they  bring  of  bliss  without  alloy, 
So  much  to  give  my  thought  and  will  employ 
Whether  upon  the  fragrant  turf  I  lie, 
With  face  upturned  and  watch  some  argosy 
Of  white-sailed  clouds,  freighted  with  summer  joy, 
Or  track  the  fancies  that,  on  wings  more  coy 
Than  shyest  bird's,  explore  a  deeper  sky, 
Or  converse  hold  with  whom  I  love  the  best,  — 

The  greatest  wonder  that  my  spirit  knows 
Is  —  that  with  so  much  gone  I  am  so  bless'd  ? 

Ah,  no  !     But  from  this  thought  it  ever  flows : 
How  could  my  heart  contain  its  vast  delight, 
If  my  lost  saints  were  with  me  here  to-night  ? 

1875. 


FROM   THE  INVISIBLE,  8? 


FROM  THE   INVISIBLE. 


ETHOUGHT  I  walked  along  a  pleasant  way, 
Sunlight  and  shadow  flecking  leaf  and  sod, 
And,  hand  in  my  hand,  one  beside  me  trod, 
Her  fair  face  adding  brightness  to  the  day. 
Sudden  we  came  upon  a  hidden  door, 

And  she  that  walked  beside  me  passed  within, 
Nor  did  return.     But,  where  she  late  had  been, 
There  came  a  Voice  that  clamored,  "  Nevermore  ! 
That  Voice  I  knew  ;  but  straightway,  seemingly, 
From  the  shut  door  a  gentle  Echo  rung. 
And  "  Evermore  !  "  still  "  Evermore  !  "  it  sung, 
And  ever  softer  and  more  dreamingly. 
God  of  the  living  !  from  within  the  door  — 
No  echo  —  came  that  blest  word,  "  Evermore"  ? 


1884. 


ii 


8S 


ROW  EX  A    DARLING, 


ROWENA   DARLING. 


HEAP  of  mortar,  brick,  and  stone, 

O'ergrown  with  shrubs,  o'errun  with  vines 
That  here  was  once  a  house  and  home, 
How  ill  the  careless  sense  divines, 

Rowena  Darling  ! 


Not  careless  his,  my  friend's,  who  loves 
To  wander  in  the  ancient  ways, 

To  talk  of  olden  times,  and  —  yes  — 
To  celebrate  your  simple  praise, 

Rowena  Darling. 

Here,  once  upon  a  time,  he  tells, 
There  lived  a  girl  unknown  to  fame  : 

The  country-side  no  sweeter  knew,  — 
It  could  not  know  a  sweeter  name,  — 

Rowena  Darling  ! 

Here,  where  the  birches*  silver  gleam 

Shines  where  the  hearth-fire  used  to  blaze, 

The  hearthstone  still  you  can  descry, 
As  smooth  as  in  your  loveliest  days, 

Rowena  Darling. 


ROW  EN  A    DARLING.  89 

Here  whisks  about  the  squirrel  brown, 
Here  thrush  or  robin  comes  and  sings ; 

But,  standing  here,  I  can  but  think 
Of  other  days  and  sweeter  things, 

Rowena  Darling. 

Here  baked  the  apples  in  a  row ; 

Here  cracked  the  chestnuts  ripe  and  sweet ; 
Here  — ah,  I  seem  to  see  them  now  !  — 

You  warmed  your  pretty  buskined  feet, 

Rowena  Darling. 

And  here,  when  burned  the  embers  low, 

And  old  folks  long  had  been  asleep, 
Your  heart  stood  still  to  hear  a  voice 

That  whispered  —  oh,  how  warm  and  deep  !  — ■ 

Rowena  —  Darling ! 

Alas,  how  many  years  have  fled 

Since  hearth  and  heart  were  warm  and  brieht, 
And  all  the  room  and  all  the  world 

Glowed  with  your  love's  supreme  delight, 

Rowena  Darling ! 

This  rose-bush  growing  by  the  door 

Perhaps  you  planted,  long  ago  ; 
I  pluck  and  kiss  for  your  dear  sake 

Its  fairest,  be  it  so  or  no, 

Rowena  Darling. 
Chesterfield,  1883. 


90  UNCONSCIOUSNESS. 


UNCONSCIOUSNESS. 

*'  Why  callest  thou  me  good  ?    There  is  none  good  but  God." 

READ  that,  when  Beethoven  was  grown  old, 
The  mighty  ravishment  of  that  great  power, 
Which  holds  us  willing  captives  to  this  hour, 
Still  like  a  torrent  from  his  bosom  rolled, 
But  on  his  outward  sense  it  took  no  hold ; 
Deaf  were  his  ears  to  all  that  perfect  dower 
That  gushed  from  him,  as  fragrance  from  a  flower, 
In  tenderest  joy  a  million  hearts  to  fold. 

I  read  of  One  from  out  whose  heart  there  came 
The  music  of  a  life  at  one  with  God  ; 

Which  makes  the  ages  echo  with  His  fame, 
And  "  Holy  Land  "  the  land  which  erst  He  trod : 

And  still,  though  tender,  He  with  words  of  blame 
Encountered  one  who  dared  to  call  Him  good. 


1S71. 


SUB-CONSCIO  USNESS.  9 1 


SUB-CONSCIOUSNESS. 

11  Peace  I  leave  with  you,  my  peace  I  give  unto  you." 

ET  when  the  mightiest  of  music's  lords,  — 
Master-magician  of  that  finer  speech 
Which  tells  of  things  that  words  can  never 
reach, 
And  room  for  soul  as  well  as  sense  affords,  — 
When  he  could  hear  no  more  the  thrilling  chords, 
He  was  not  deaf  as  is  the  lonely  beach 
To  its  own  music  :  there  was  still  a  breach 
Through  which  he  heard  the  inarticulate  words. 

And  He  that  said,  "  Why  callest  thou  me  good  ?  " 
Nor  heard  the  music  that  his  life  outpoured,  — 
He  was  not  stranger  to  a  peace  which  flowed 
From  those  calm  heights  whereto  his  spirit  soared. 

The  praise  of  men  might  bravely  be  withstood, 
But  not  the  Love  he  silently  adored. 


1871. 


92  THE  STORY  OF  MEDARDUS. 


THE   STORY   OF   MEDARDUS. 


EDARDUS  walked  his  studio-cell, 
And  sights  of  Heaven  and  shapes  of  Hell 

Passed  by  him  in  a  dream  ; 
For  he  a  picture  fain  would  paint 
Of  Mary  or  some  blessed  saint, 
In  altar-niche  to  gleam. 


And  there  in  vision  Mary  came, 
Her  face  as  bright  as  purest  flame, 

Her  form  of  matchless  grace ; 
And  dark  beneath  her  feet  he  sees  — 
A  sight  to  make  the  vitals  freeze  — 

The  Adversary's  face. 

"  This  shall  my  picture  be,"  he  said, 
And  seized  his  brush  and  straight  essayed 

To  make  the  vision  good ; 
Nor  cared  for  food,  nor  cared  for  rest, 
But  day  and  night,  like  one  possessed, 

Before  his  canvas  stood. 


THE  STORY  OF  MEDARDUS.  93 

The  Virgin  lent  her  kindly  aid, 

And  soon  the  sacred  dream  was  stayed, 

And  on  the  canvas  glowed  ; 
The  Virgin  fair  as  fair  could  be, 
But  Satan  not  more  hideously 

Glowers  in  his  own  abode. 

But  as  one  day  Medardus  stood 
In  happy  and  exultant  mood 

Before  his  picture  done, 
He  felt  a  chilling  presence  near, 
And  knew  by  something  dark  and  drear 

That  he  was  not  alone. 

The  Adversary  spoke  —  'twas  he  — 
And  promised  gifts  most  lavishly, 

If  but  Medardus  would 
Take  something  from  the  Virgin's  grace 
Or  make  his  own  accursed  face 

With  less  of  hell  imbued. 

But  no  :  Medardus  seized  his  brush, 
And  gave  the  Virgin's  face  a  flush 

Of  meaning  more  divine  ; 
While  on  the  Adversary's  face 
He  left  a  more  terrific  trace, 

A  more  infernal  sign. 


94  THE  STORY  OF  MEDARDUS. 

Again  the  Tempter  came  to  him, 

But  now  with  threatenings  harsh  and  grim 

Of  evil  things  to  come  ; 
But  still  Medardus  would  not  yield, 
And  still  her  face  with  splendor  filled 

The  dark  and  narrow  room. 

At  last  a  day  had  come  when  all 
The  people  made  high  festival ; 

And,  best  of  all  the  glee, 
The  picture  by  Medardus  made 
Would  in  the  great  square  be  displayed, 

That  all  might  come  and  see. 

And  there  it  was ;  and  while  the  crowd 
Surged  up,  with  acclamations  loud, 

To  view  the  wondrous  thing, 
Medardus  close  beside  it  stood, 
And  praised  the  Virgin  that  he  could 

Make  her  such  offering. 

But  sudden  there  was  heard  a  cry, 
And  then  down-swooping  from  on  high 

The  Adversary  sped  : 
Medardus  seized,  and  high  in  air 
Bore  him  \  then  on  the  pavement  there 

He  dashed  him,  bleeding  —  dead. 


THE   STORY  OF  MEDARDUS.  95 

But  see  !     The  Virgin  seems  to  move 
Her  pictured  arms ;  her  face  with  love 

Unspeakable  is  sweet : 
She  reaches  from  the  picture  forth, 
And  lifts  Medardus  from  the  earth 

And  sets  him  on  his  feet. 

Again  he  lives  !     Again  he  sees 

The  crowd,  now  hushed  upon  their  knees, 

And  hears  the  Virgin  say  : 
"  As  thou  wast  ever  true  to  me, 
To-day  I  have  been  true  to  thee, 

And  will  be  true  alway." 

O  Heavenly  Father,  grant  that  we 
May  from  this  tale  of  mystery 

This  simple  lesson  gain  : 
That,  if  Thy  visions  we  obey, 
Whatever  comes  to  curse  or  slay, 

It  will  but  come  in  vain. 


1870. 


96  A    TIMELY  QUESTION. 


A   TIMELY   QUESTION. 

F  good  men  were  only  better, 
Would  the  wicked  be  so  bad  ? 
Here's  a  story  with  an  answer 

To  that  question  strange  and  sacL 


Herod,  famed  among  the  wicked, 
Called  the  Great  with  doubtful  right, 

When  a  boy  of  twenty  summers 
With  banditti  made  a  fight. 

Hezekiah,  their  fierce  captain, 
Captured  he  and  put  to  death ; 

Many  a  follower  then  compelled  he 
To  resign  his  evil  breath. 

It  was  well  done :  who  but  thinks  so  ? 

Thought  not  so  the  Sanhedrin. 
Herod  was  an  Idumean  ; 

So  his  deed  became  a  sin. 


A    TIMELY  QUESTION.  97 

Let  him  kill  his  own  banditti ; 

Never  dare  to  deal  with  theirs. 
So  they  summoned  him  to  meet  them 

And  to  settle  his  affairs. 

Scarcely  sooner  said  than  done  'twas ; 

Herod  came  ;  they  wished  him  back  ; 
For  he  came  all  clad  in  armor, 

With  his  henchmen  at  his  back. 

Cowered  the  Sanhedrin  before  him ; 

Dared  not  say  a  single  word  ; 
Only  Sameas  withstood  him 

With  a  brave,  "  Thus  saith  the  Lord. 

Herod  listened  while  the  Rabbi 

Execrated  all  his  crimes  \ 
Then  he  vanished.     Summers  flitted  ; 

Fell  the  land  on  evil  times ; 

Antony  and  Caesar  ploughed  it 

With  the  iron  share  of  war ; 
Tore  it  with  their  cruel  factions, 

Left  it  many  a  dreadful  scar ; 

Till,  at  length,  from  Rome  came  Herod, 

Sent  by  Caesar  to  be  king  ; 
At  the  gates  his  legions  thundered, 

Famine  gnawed  them  from  within. 


9*  A    TIMELY  QUESTION. 

Many  months  in  vain  he  battered, 
But,  at  last,  surrender  came ; 

Then  a  deed  that  earned  for  Herod 
Centuries  of  hateful  fame. 

Since  the  Sanhedrin  had  counselled 
Firm  resistance  to  his  will, 

"  Let  them  perish,"  he  commanded, 
"  Let  their  blood  the  gutters  fill." 

Only  one  he  granted  mercy,  — 

Sameas  ;  the  very  man 
Who  had  years  before  withstood  him. 

Guess  the  reason  if  you  can. 

I  have  guessed  it  in  the  question 
Which  I  venture,  strange  and  sad : 

If  the  good  were  only  better, 
Would  the  wicked  be  so  bad  ? 


1872 


NOT    YET  99 


NOT   YET. 

N  days  long,  long  ago,  when  a  divine  unrest 
Was  surging  like  a  sea  in  Europe's  mighty 
breast, 


And   the   fierce    Hermit's   voice    proclaimed   the   dear 

Lord's  will, 
And  drove  the  nations  forth  to  strike  and  strive  and  kill. 

If  haply  they  might  win  from  Saracenic  horde 
The  tomb  and  precious  dust  of  their  most  precious 
Lord,  — 

As  the  Crusadeis  marched  upon  their  weary  way, 
Never  was  seen,  I  trow,  a  motlier  disarray  ; 

Baron  and  serf,  and  dames  all  beautiful  and  bright, 
And  women  who  had  strayed  far  out  into  the  night ; 

And  little  children  too,  on  mothers'  aching  breasts, 
That  heaved  with  many  a  sigh  for  their  deserted  nests 


IOO  NOT   YET. 

And  as  they  toiled  along,  and  came  from  place  to  place, 
Now  to  some  little  town  or  hamlet  void  of  grace, 

The  little  children  asked  of  those  that  carried  them 
In  ever  sadder  tones,  "  Is  this  Jerusalem  ?  " 

And  ever  and  again,  with  more  and  more  regret, 
Heard  the  disheartening  words,  "  Not  yet,  my  child, 
not  yet." 

"  Not  yet,  my  child,  not  yet,"  I  hear  the  Father  say 
To  the  Crusader  true,  of  this  our  land  and  day ; 

"  For  many  a  weary  league  thy  feet  have  yet  to  tread 
Ere  through  the  City's  gates  thou  art  in  triumph  led. 

"  Thou  dost  not  know  how  high  its  gleaming  spires 

arise, 
If  with  these  village  roofs  thou  canst  content  thine  eyes 

"  Thou  dost  not  guess  how  wide  is  every  shining  street, 
If  here  thou  think'st  to  find  fit  passage  for  thy  feet. 

"Thou  hast  not  dreamed  a  dream  of  men  supremely 

strong, 
Of  women  sweeter  far  than  poet's  sweetest  song, 

"  If  with  these  rustic  boors  thou  canst  be  pleased  to 

dwell, 
And  wilh  these  damsels  rude  believe  that  all  is  well. 


NOT   YET  10 1 

"  Rest  in  no  triumph  won :  the  best  is  yet  to  be, 
Not  yet  from  half  its  woe  is  the  great  world  set  free. 

"  The  victory  of  to-day,  that  seems  so  passing  bright, 
Is  but  a  hamlet  rude  where  thou  shalt  rest  to-night. 

"  To-morrow  up  and  on  \  but  not  with  hope  to  see, 
Ere  night  shall  come  again,  the  City  rise  on  thee. 

"  Far  off,  far  off  it  lies,  'neath  the  horizon's  rim : 
Enough  for  thee  to  know,  I  see  Jerusalem  I 

"  Thou  hast  done  well  thy  part,  if  thou  hast  done  thy 

best : 
As  sure  as  I  am  God,  I  answer  for  the  rest." 


1867. 


I Q2  UNRECOGNIZED. 


UNRECOGNIZED. 

^g;HP2N  we  have  gone  within  the  veil  that  hides 
From  mortal  ken  the  lost  of  other  days. 
Amid  the  pure  transparence  of  those  rays 
Wherein,  unseen,  the  Light  of  Life  abides, 
Shall  we  indeed  from  out  the  luminous  tides 
Of  spirits  surging  through  those  mystic  ways 
Full  surely  know  —  oh,  joy  beyond  all  praise  !  — 
Each  waiting  friend  ?     So  heart  to  heart  confides 
Its  secret  pain.     ]>ut  one  of  clearest  sight 

So  questioned,  answered  :  While  we  still  are  here 
Earth-pent,  how  often  do  we  recognize, 
For  what  they  are,  the  spirits  pure  and  bright 
Close  at  our  sides?     How  not  for  heaven  fear, 
When  mortal  vapors  wrap  in  such  disguise  ! 

iSSS. 


THE  HARDEST  LOT.  103 


THE    HARDEST    LOT. 


^5^m0  look  upon  the  face  of  a  dead  friend 


l&J     Is  hard  \  but  't is  not  more  than  \vc  can  bear 


^ 


vfsk\     If,  haply,  we  can  see  peace  written  there,  — 
Peace  after  pain,  and  welcome  so  the  end, 

Whate'er  the  past,  whatever  death  may  send. 
Yea,  and  that  face  a  gracious  smile  may  wear, 
If  love  till  death  was  perfect,  sweet,  and  fair. 
But  there  is  woe  from  which  may  God  defend  : 

To  look  upon  our  friendship  lying  dead, 

While  we  live  on,  and  eat,  and  drink,  and  sleep  — 
Mere  bodies  from  which  all  the  soul  has  fled  — 

And  that  dead  thing  year  after  year  to  keep 

Locked  in  cold  silence  on  its  dreamless  bed  :  — ■ 

There  must  be  hell  while  there  is  such  a  deep. 

1887. 


104  THE    RISE   OF  MAN. 


THE    RISE    OF   MAN. 


^ 


HOU  for  whose  birth  the  whole  creation  yearned 
Through  countless  ages  of  the  morning  world, 
Who,  first  in  fiery  vapors  dimly  hurled, 
Next  to  the  senseless  crystal  slowly  turned, 

Then  to  the  plant  which  grew  to  something  more,  — 
Humblest  of  creatures  that  draw  breath  of  life,  — 
Wherefrom  through  infinites  of  patient  pain 

Came  conscious  man  to  reason  and  adore  : 
Shall  we  be  shamed  because  such  things  have  been, 
Or  bate  one  jot  of  our  ancestral  pride  ? 
Nay,  in  thyself  art  thou  not  deified 
That  from  such  depths  thou  couldst  such  summits  win? 
While  the  long  way  behind  is  prophecy 
Of  those  perfections  which  are  yet  to  be. 

1883. 


THE  INEFFABLE  NAME.  1 05 


THE   INEFFABLE   NAME. 

SEE  an  angel  with  dilated  eyes 
Filled  with  a  wonder  sweet  beyond  compare, 
Around  whose   brows  her  wind-blown  golden 
hair 
Makes  aureole  splendor,  and  her  finger  lies  , 
Upon  her  lips.     Dear  angel  of  surprise, 
The  symbol  thou  of  spirits  high  and  fair, 
Who  to  be  silent  still  serenely  dare, 
Before  all  wonders  of  the  earth  and  skies. 
How  name  aright  the  Power  that  surges  through 
All  times  and  worlds,  nature  and  humankind? 
O  Light  of  light,  such  spirits  are  not  blind 
To  thy  perfections,  old  yet  ever  new  ! 

When  speech  but  mocks  the  overburdened  heart, 
They,  choosing  silence,  choose  the  better  part. 

April  12,  1S83. 


--_- 


= 


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LzZ.    >'•'.  <■     -T    ZjZ-ttzZ.  JIT    JTT  H-Ir   TTCZTT-f"!. 

::"zr  ?~j_~-  :m_   i>i  z-zzzzz'~±  Lie  ::-: 
it:  ~J~  r:  :r  :    fumed 

That  al  her  secret  it         >cc  coofc 

::::::  _ 

Taage^  bat  mere  dear  love  to  me 
zjlzz  il  the  s£are  cc  niz^i 


C-_"-_*'^rrt    I    _"    1_  _r_   ~_1 I  _    ZZ'ZZ   .'Z     z   ZZZt   SOk 


A.  XTI-DISCO  URA  GEM  EXT.  1 07 


ANTI-DISCOURAGEMENT. 

HE  legend  runs,  that  on  his  toilsome  way 

To  reach  the  Buddha's  crown  of  sacred  joy, 
Gautama  lived  a  hundred  various  lives, 

Deeming  no  task  too  mean  for  his  employ, 


So  might  he  come  at  length  to  that  high  seat 
Which  is  the  topmost  sovereignty  of  good, 

And  for  a  thousand  ages  bless  the  world 
With  the  hell-deep  salvation  of  the  Buddh. 

Of  Buddhas  there  had  been  before  his  day 
Twoscore  and  five  ;  and  when  the  first  of  all 

Was  on  this  earth,  it  chanced  he  came  anear 
A  hermit's  cell,  Guatama's,  who  did  fall 

Prone  on  his  face,  and  of  his  body  made 
A  living  bridge,  whereby  the  teacher  crossed 

A  rushing  stream  ;  and  for  this  service  he 

Had  gained,  instead  of  that  poor  life  he  lost, 


1 08  A  NTI-DISCO  URA  CEMENT. 

At  once  the  Buddha's  own  ;  but  "  No,"  he  said, 
"  I  still  will  go  the  round  of  life  and  death 

Some  ages  more,  if  so  I  may  at  length 

Redeem  all  creatures  that  draw  painful  breath." 

And  of  the  many  forms  in  which  abode 
The  spirit  which  is  now  the  Lord  of  all, 

One  was  a  small  red  squirrel,  and  full  oft 
Lower  than  this,  for  love's  sake,  did  he  fall. 

And  lo  !  there  came  a  dreadful  storm,  which  tore 
Gautama's  squirrel-nest  from  off  its  tree, 

And  bore  it,  with  its  freight  of  helpless  life, 
Far  out  upon  a  black  and  raging  sea. 

How  save  his  young  ?     Audacity  of  love  ! 

Quoth  he,  "At  length  this  pretty  brush  of  mine 
Shall  serve  me  well,  for  with  it  I  will  dry 

This  deep  sea  up  of  all  its  weltering  brine." 

And  so  with  valiant  heart  he  went  to  work 

To  save  his  brood  ;  and  seven  days  he  wrought, 

Sprinkling  the  sea  on  the  unconscious  land. 
Nor  would  believe  that  it  was  all  for  naught. 

Then  Sekra,  ruler  of  the  heavens,  saw 

What  he  was  at,  and  laughed  right  merrily 

To  think  a  squirrel,  with  his  tail,  should  deem 
That  lie  could  dry  the  unfathomable  sea. 


A  NTI-DlSCO  URA  GEMENT.  1 09 

"  Ho,  there  !  "  he  cried,  "  a  hundred  thousand  men 
Could  not  accomplish  what  thou  dost  essay 

If  they  should  toil  a  hundred  thousand  years, 
And  all  the  hours  were  years  of  every  day." 

"Thou  speakest  true,"  the  squirrel-saint  replied; 

"  So  would  it  be  if  all  were  like  to  thee  : 
But  mind,  old  imbecile,  thine  own  affairs  — 

/shall  go  on  till  I  have  dried  the  sea." 

So  with  new  ardor  he  frisked  up  and  down 

The  wild  sea's  edge,  hearing  his  young  ones  cry, 

Till  Sekra  ceased  to  laugh,  and,  looking  down 
With  wondering  pity  from  the  inclement  sky, 

That  such  vast  courage  could  have  found  a  home 
In  such  a  feeble  creature's  tiny  breast, 

Soothed  all  his  winds  to  sleep,  and  o'er  the  deep 
Spread  suddenly  a  sweet  and  perfect  rest, 

Save  where  one  kindly  zephyr  gently  pressed 
Landward  the  leafy  squirrel-laden  bough, 

Till  there  was  laughter  in  the  heart  which  then 
Was  a  red  squirrel's,  but  is  Buddha's  now. 

O  mighty  power  of  love  !     O  heart  that  dares 
All  things  for  its  beloved  !     To  you  alone 

All  things  are  possible  ;  the  heavens  bend, 

And  powers  that  scoffed  will  help  you  to  your  own  ! 
1S80. 


no  JAN  STEENER'S  RIDE. 


JAN    STEENER'S   RIDE. 

STORY  is  it,  you  want,  little  man  ? 

Well,  come  and  sit  on  your  grandfather's  knee, 
And  I  "11  do  the  best  that  ever  I  can  — 
It 's  one  my  grandfather  told  to  me. 


I  'm  somethin'  more  than  eighty ;  well, 

He  was  almost  ninety,  and  hale  and  bright, 

And  I  was  sitting,  as  you  are  now. 
Snug  in  his  arms  one  winter  night. 

Said  he  :   "  When  I  was  a  smart  young  uian  — 
Before  the  Dutch  had  the  country  lost  — 

There  stood  a  church  on  the  village  green, 

Right  in  the  middle  where  two  roads  crossed. 

'•  It  stood  as  flush  with  the  village  street 

As  the  topo'  your  head  with  the  palm  o'  my  hand. 

So  ;   and  running  from  east  to  west, 
Open  each  end  to  the  pleasant  land, 


JAN  STEENER'S  RIDE.  ill 

"  Spread  out  like  a  picture,  the  broad  aisle  ran, 
With  the  dominie's  pulpit  a  bit  one  side 

Of  the  upper  end  \  and  there  he  stood, 
Sounding  his  trumpet  far  and  wide, 

"  One  Sabbath  morning,  as  pretty  a  day 

As  ever  the  Lord  God  chose  to  make  ; 
And  what  do  you  think  was  the  Bible  text 

The  dear  old  dominie  chanced  to  take 

"  That  morning,  but  one  from  the  Tocalypse 

'Bout  the  great  white  horse  and  his  rider,  Death? 

He  was  just  beginning  on  '  ninthly,'  and 

The  people  were  most  of  'em  holding  their  breath, 

"  When  all  at  once,  in  at  the  open  door, 
And  up  the  aisle  with  a  thunderous  sound, 

Riding  as  white  a  horse  as  a  man 
Could  find  in  all  the  country  round, 

"  There  came  a  horseman  galloping  fast  — 
A  single  flash  —  he  had  come  and  gone, 

Leaving  a  hundred  Dutch-folk  there 

With  their  hearts  in  their  breasts  like  an  icy  stone. 

"  And  the  dominie  he  was  scared  the  worst 

Of  'em  all ;  he  trembled  and  shivered  and  shook, 

And  gripped  the  pulpit  as  if  he  thought 
The  dreadful  day  of  the  Holy  Book 


112  JAN  STEENER'S  RIDE. 

"  Had  come  for  sure  ;  and  at  last  he  said  : 
'  What  we  have  seen  I  dare  not  say  : 

But  if  it  be  a  sign  of  the  end, 

There  is  need  for  us  all  to  watch  and  pray.' 

"  So  with  prayer  and  blessing  the  frightened  folk 
Were  all  to  their  various  homes  dismissed ; 

But  one  old  burgher  said,  and  swore, 

As  he  shook  like  a  hammer  his  grimy  fist, 

"  He  'd  bet  a  thousand  thalers  to  one 

That  the  man  who  rode  and  the  clattering  steed 
Were  just  a  younker  of  flesh  and  blood 

And  a  handsome  horse  of  the  Flemish  breed. 

"And,  in  truth,  he  wasn't  much  out,  my  lad  ! 

I  ought  to  know,  for  the  horse  was  mine, 
And  I  was  the  younker  that  struck  aghast 

The  dominie  preaching  his  number  nine. 

"  Don't  look  so  solemn  !     You  see,  that  day 
I  was  bound  to  see  the  prettiest  girl 

That  ever  looked  in  a  looking-glass 

To  conquer  a  wilful  and  wandering  curl. 


"i 


\nd  the  shortest  way  to  her  side  was  through 
The  meeting-house  aisle  ;  so  through  I  went. 
A  minute's  difference,  more  or  less  ; 

lint  life  at  the  longest  will  soon  be  spent, 


i875- 


JAN  STEEXER  \S  RIDE.  I  I  3 

"  And  the  love  of  a  girl  who  is  sweet  and  true 
Is  a  thing  so  precious  beneath  the  sun 

That  one  of  its  minutes  is  worth  an  age 
Of  hearts  that  never  such  bliss  have  won." 

This  is  the  story  my  grandfather  told 
To  yours  ;  it  was  fourscore  years  ago. 

That  is  my  grandmother's  picture  there  ; 
Do  you  wonder  much  that  he  loved  her  so  ? 


<&^t 


114  THE  HARBOR-LIGHTS. 


THE   HARBOR-LIGHTS. 

UST  at  the  harbor's  mouth  she  stood ; 
Behind  her  was  the  beacon  white, 
Which  sends  its  kindly  warning  forth 
From  evening  shade  till  morning  light. 


Above  her  was  the  golden  sun  ; 

More  golden  shone  her  tossing  hair ; 
The  ocean's  azure,  at  her  feet, 

With  her  blue  eyes  could  not  compare. 

Full  sheer  the  cliff  whereon  she  stood, 

And,  though  her  eyes  were  downward  cast, 

I  still  could  row  my  boat  anear 
And  see  their  glory  as  I  passed. 

Patiently  there  she  watched  her  line, 
That  sank  among  the  golden  weed. 

II  Who  would  not  be  a  fish,"  thought  I, 

"  By  such  sweet  hands  if  doomed  to  bleed? ,# 


THE  HARBOR-LIGHTS.  115 

Sweet  hands,  but  browner  than  the  rock 

Whereon  her  pretty  feet  had  place  ; 
Which,  browner  yet,  laid  hold  of  it 

With  naked  purity  and  grace. 

One  day  I  dared  to  speak  to  hei  : 

"  What  have  you  caught  to-day,  my  dear  ? " 

"  Nothing  but  just  a  thought  or  two ; 

More  thoughts  than  fish  come  swimming  here." 

"  And  have  you  caught  this  thought,  my  dear, 
That  I  love  you  and  you  love  me  ?  " 

I  dared  not  speak  the  question  out; 
Such  joy  as  that  might  never  be. 

So  every  day  I  pass  her  by, 

But  cannot  bring  my  lips  to  say  : 
"  My  heart  is  caught  upon  your  hook, 

And  cannot  tear  itself  away." 

Why  should  I  speak  ?     She  would  not  slip 

From  off  the  rocks  into  my  boat,    • 
And  say,  "  As  thus  for  evermore 

Let  us  together  sit  and  float." 

She  would  not  love,  —  'tis  not  her  time  ; 

But  naught  that  she  can  do  or  say 
Can  rob  me  of  my  right  divine 

To  love  and  worship  her  alway. 


Il6  A    WEDDING   SONG. 

O  maiden  at  the  harbor's  mouth  ! 

By  day,  with  their  distracting  light, 
Your  eyes  will  wreck  more  venturous  hearts 

Than  ever  beacon  saved  by  night. 


1872. 


A   WEDDING-SONG. 


SAID  :  "  My  heart,  now  let  us  sing  a  song 
For  a  fair  lady  on  her  wedding-day  ; 
Some  solemn  hymn  or  pretty  roundelay, 
That  shall  be  with  her  as  she  goes  along 
To  meet  her  joy,  and  for  her  happy  feet 
Shall  make  a  pleasant  music,  low  and  sweet." 

Then  said  my  heart :  "  It  is  right  bold  of  thee 
To  think  that  any  song  that  we  could  sing 
Would  for  this  lady  be  an  offering 

Meet  for  such  gladness  as  hers  needs  must  be, 
What  time  she  goes  to  don  her  bridal  ring, 
And  her  own  heart  makes  sweetest  carolling." 

And  so  it  is  that  with  my  lute  unstrung, 
Lady,  I  come  to  greet  thy  wedding-day; 
But  once,  methinks,  I  heard  a  poet  say 

The  sweetest  songs  remain  for  aye  unsung. 
So  mine,  unsung,  at  thy  dear  feet  I  lay, 
And  with  a  "  Peace  be  with  thee  !  "  y,o  my  way. 

October  8,  1879. 


y-iTE.  117 


FATE. 

LL  unconscious  I  beheld  her  ; 

Knew  not  that  my  fate  was  nigh, 
■^•'i     Fate  that  wears  such  various  aspect 
To  the  victim's  laughing  eye. 

Poets,  painters,  still  to  paint  her 
Dark  and  gloomy,  do  their  best ; 

Were  I  painter,  I  would  paint  her 
All  in  cherry-color  dressed. 

She  should  be  a  little  maiden, 

Modest,  shrinking,  sweet,  and  fair, 

At  a  party,  playing  forfeits, 

Looking,  "  Kiss  me  if  you  dare  !  " 

Did  I  kiss  you?     If  I  did  n't, 
T  was  the  blunder  of  my  life. 

Was  the  last  the  hundred  millionth? 
Just  one  more  then,  little  wife. 


January  3,  1SS0. 


COMING    AND    GOING. 


COMING   AND   GOING. 


-♦<>♦- 


THE    OLDEST   STORY. 

NDER  the  coverlet's  snowy  fold 

The  tiniest  stir  that  ever  was  seen, 
And  the  tiniest  sound,  as  if  fairy  folk 
Were  cuddling  under  a  leaf,  I  ween. 

That  is  the  baby  :  he  came  to  town 

Only  a  day  or  two  ago  ; 
But  he  looks  as  wise  as  if  he  knew 

All  that  a  babv  can  ever  know. 

There  he  lies  in  a  little  heap, 

As  soft  as  velvet,  as  warm  as  toast, 

As  rosy-red  as  the  harvest  moon 

Which  I  saw  so  big  on  the  hazy  coast. 

Hear  him  gurgle  and  sputter  and  sigh, 
As  if  his  dear  little  heart  would  break, 

And  scold  away  as  if  all  the  world 

Were  only  meant  for  his  littleness'  sake. 


122  THE    OLDEST  STORY. 

Blink,  little  eyes,  at  the  strange  new  light ; 

Hark,  little  ears,  at  the  strange  new  sound  : 
Wonderful  things  shall  you  see  and  hear 

As  the  days  and  the  months  and  the  years  go  round, 

Hardly  you  seem  a  Life  at  all ; 

Only  a  Something  with  hands  and  feet, 
Only  a  Feeling  that  things  are  warm, 

Only  a  Longing  for  something  to  eat. 

Have  you  a  thought  in  your  downy  head  ? 

Can  you  say  to  yourself  so  much  as  "  I  "  ? 
Have  you  found  out  yet  that  you  are  yourself? 

Or  has  God  what  you  will  be  by  and  by  ? 

It 's  only  a  little  that  we  can  guess, 

But  it 's  quite  as  much  as  we  care  to  know ; 

The  rest  will  come  with  the  fleeting  years, 
Little  by  little,  —  and  better  so. 

Enough  for  the  day  is  the  good  thereof: 
The  speck  of  a  thing  that  is  lying  there, 

And  the  presence  that  fills  the  silent  house 
With  the  tender  hush  of  a  voiceless  prayer. 

October  29,  1S77. 


IN  AN   UNKNOWN  TONGUE.  1 23 


IN   AN   UNKNOWN   TONGUE. 


KNOW  full  well  what  saith  Saint  Paul ; 
For  unknown  tongues  he  did  not  care ; 
It  was  as  much  as  he  could  do 
To  speak  them  good  and  fair. 


Give  him  the  known  and  understood ; 

Five  words  of  this  he  counted  more 
Than  thousands  ten  of  all  the  rest 

That  men  could  babble  o'er. 

But  then  he  did  n't,  as  he  might, 
Like  Peter,  take  a  wife  about, 

To  tend  his  thorn,  and  soothe  his  heart, 
With  combat  wearied  out. 

And  so  he  had  no  tiny  Paul, 

No  nonsense-prating,  wee  Pauline, 

To  make  him  half  forget  the  strife 
His  Jew  and  Greek  between. 


124  IN  AN   UNKNOWN   TONGUE 

I  cannot  glory,  as  could  he, 
In  perils  both  by  sea  and  land  ; 

Of  visions  I  have  had  a  few,  — 
Some  hard  to  understand. 

But  I  can  glory  in  a  Boy, 

As  dear  as  ever  poet  sung ; 
And  all  his  speech,  from  morn  till  eve, 

Is  in  an  unknown  tongue. 

Strange,  bubbling,  rippling,  gurgling  sounds 
His  pouting  lips  still  overflow ; 

But  what  the  meaning  of  them  is, 
The  wisest  do  not  know. 

Friends  have  I,  learned  in  the  Greek, 
In  Latin,  Hebrew,  Spanish,  Dutch, 

In  French  and  German ;  and  a  few 
Of  Sanscrit  know  —  not  much. 

They  come  and  hear  the  Baby's  speech, 
As  blithe  as  any  song  of  bird  ; 

They  wonder  much,  but  go  away, 
Nor  understand  a  word. 

It  minds  me  now  of  mountain  rills, 

And  now  of  zigzag  droning  bee 
And  now  of  sounds  the  summer  makes 

Among  the  leafy  tre< 


1878. 


IN  AN   UNKNOWN  TONGUE.  1 25 

And  yet,  if  I  should  say  the  truth, 

Five  words  of  his  to  me  are  more 
Than  of  the  words  I  understand 

Five  hundred  times  a  score. 

For  whatsoever  they  may  mean 

To  him,  or  to  my  learned  friends, 
One  meaning,  of  all  meanings  best, 

He  still  to  me  commends  : 

That  life  is  sweet  for  him  and  me, 

Though  half  its  meaning  be  not  guessed ; 

That  God  is  good,  and  I  a  child 
Upon  his  loving  breast. 


126  TO   JACOB  ABBOTT. 


TO   JACOB   ABBOTT. 

EAR  charmer  of  a  thousand  happy  hours, 
My  earliest  guide  into  those  blessed  ways 
Wherein  I  have  delighted  all  my  days, 
Sweeter  to  me  than  laggard  August  showers 
To  thirsty  fields,  it  was,  to  hear  thee  tell 
Of  happy  Rollo,  and  of  Jonas  wise, 
And  Lucy  with  her  meek  inquiring  eyes, 
And  all  that  happed  to  dearest  Mary  Bell. 
Now  thou  art  gone,  so  long  the  children's  friend  ! 
But,  as  I  muse,  I  seem  at  heaven's  door 
To  hear  a  sound  which  there  I  heard  before, 
When  Danish  Hans  that  way  did  softly  wend,  — 
A  sound  of  children  making  merriest  din 
Of  welcome  as  the  old  man  enters  in. 

Brooklyn,  18S1. 


A    TRUE  STORY. 


127 


A   TRUE   STORY. 


"  Greater  love  hath  no  man  than  this  " 


ROM  a  home  that  had  two  darlings 

One  was  called  and  went  away,  — 
Baby  Ralph ;  and  little  Willie 
Missed  him  sorely  at  his  play. 


As  one  day  he  talked  about  him, 

Wondering  much  where  he  had  gone, 

Wishing  much  he  would  not  tarry, 
Brother  Willie  was  so  lone,  — 


Said  the  mother,  so  beguiling 
Something  of  her  secret  pain, 

"  What  would  Willie  give  if  only 
Baby  Ralph  could  come  again  ?  " 

Drooped  the  little  head  in  silence, 
Thinking  hard,  'twas  plain  to  see  ; 

Then  he  spoke  out  strong  and  tender, 
"Mamma  I  would  give  God  me" 


1873 


128  WHAT   WOULD    THEY  SAYt 


WHAT   WOULD   THEY   SAY? 

F  they  could  find  a  voice,  these  little  ones, 

That  freeze  by  night  and  hunger  all  the  day, 
If  they  could  find  a  voice  and  speak  to  you, 
What  think    you,  men    and    women,  would 
they  say  ? 


They  would  say,  If  God  had  told  them,  up  in  heaven, 
Of  the  welcome  that  awaited  them  on  earth, 

And  had  let  them  choose  to  stay  with  Him  for  ever, 
Or  to  taste  the  awful  mystery  of  birth  ; 

Though  it  would  have  been  most  bitter  not  to  listen 
To  the  prayers  of  women  waiting  for  their  birth, 

They  would  have  stayed  for  ever  up  in  heaven, 
And  would  never  have  descended  to  the  earth. 

Dut  they  came,  (oh,  little  feet !)  not  knowing  whither,-— 
Did  not  dream  but  that  the  earth  would  serve  them 
well  \ 

Did  not  dream  that  they  were  wandering  out  of  heaven 
To  encounter  ;ill  tin1  miseries  of  hell. 


WHAT   WOULD   THEY  SAYt  1 29 

"  But  now  that  we  are  with  you,  men  and  women," 
They  would  say,  if  they  could  only  find  the  word, 

u  We  pray  you  do  not  turn  to  bitter  crying 

What  should  be  the  sweetest  music  ever  heard. 

"  For  the  fathers  and  the  mothers  that  God  gave  us 
Did  for  us  the  very  best  that  they  could  do, 

But  they  perished  with  their  over-work  and  sorrow, 
And  we  turn  from  their  dead  faces  unto  you. 

"Will  you  help  us  to  be  innocent  and  happy? 

Will  you  help  us  to  be  womanly  and  pure  ? 
Will  you  save  us  from  the  terrible  temptations 

That  for  ever  lie  in  waiting  for  the  poor  ? 

"  Will  you  snatch  us  from  the  dreadful  tooth  of  famine. 
From  the  sharper  troth  of  ignorance  and  sin  ? 

Will  vou  lead  us  from  this  fearful  outer  darkness 
To  the  light  which  evermore  doth  shine  within  ? 

"  If  you  will,  O  men  and  women,  we  will  bless  you  ; 

And  the  children  that  God  lets  you  call  your  own 
Shall  reward  you,  with  their  sweetest  baby  murmurs, 

For  not  leaving  us  to  perish  all  alone." 

If  they  could  find  a  voice,  these  little  ones, 

That  freeze  by  night  and  hunger  all  the  clay,  — 

]  I  they  could  find  a  voice  and  speak  to  you, 
Men  and  women,  it  is  this  that  they  would  say. 


1 30  THE  FA  THER  'S  JO  J  ; 


THE    FATHER'S  JOY. 

S  closely  to  my  heart  this  morn 

I  held  the  little  child 
That  lately  came  to  me  from  God, 
So  sweet  and  undefiled,  — 


Bending  above  her  litttle  face 
As  though  it  were  a  book, 

In  which  to  know  that  God  is  good 
I  needed  but  to  look,  — 

Up  to  my  eyes  she  turned  her  own 

In  such  a  wondrous  way, 
That  I  shall  be  a  happier  man 

Henceforward  from  this  day. 

For  not  more  plainly,  if  in  words 

She  could  her  meaning  tell, 
Could  she  declare  her  message  sweet, 

"  Father,  1  know  you  well 


I  >' 


THE  MOTHER'S  JOY.  131 

O  recognition  more  divine 

Than  lovers'  looks  of  love, 
When  first  they  know  the  will  of  God 

And  all  His  goodness  prove  ! 

O  recognition  more  divine 

Than  words  of  mine  can  say  ! 
What  have  I  done.  O  God,  that  Thou 

Shouldst  bless  me  so  alway? 

Into  the  face  of  death,  to-day, 

I  could  have  looked  and  smiled, 
And  said,  "  Come  take  me,  for  I  Ve  had 

A  message  from  my  child." 


January,  1S6S. 


THE   MOTHER'S  JOY. 

ITTLE,  I  ween,  did  Mary  guess, 
As  on  her  arm  her  baby  lay, 
What  tides  of  joy  would  swell  and  beat. 
Through  ages  long,  on  Christmas  day. 


And  what  if  she  had  known  it  all,  — 
The  awful  splendor  of  his  fame? 

The  inmost  heart  of  all  her  joy 

Would  still,  methinks,  have  been  the  same 


132  THE  MOTHER'S  JOY. 

The  joy  that  every  mother  knows 

Who  feels  her  babe  against  her  breast : 

The  voyage  long  is  overpast, 

And  now  is  calm  and  peace  and  rest. 

"  Art  thou  the  Christ?  "     The  wonder  came 
As  easy  as  her  infant's  breath  : 

But  answer  none.     Enough  for  her, 
That  love  had  triumphed  over  death. 

Christmas,  1883. 


"WATER  AND    THE   SPIRIT."  133 


"WATER   AND   THE   SPIRIT." 


Written  for  the  baptism  of  a  little  child. 

HEN  summer  clouds  distil 

The  sweetness  of  the  rain, 
What  various  work  it  finds  to  do 
Ere  it  goes  back  again  ! 


It  feeds  the  mountain  rills 
As  they  go  hurrying  down  ; 

It  cools  the  pavements,  hot  as  flame, 
In  the  deserted  town. 

It  tinkles  day  and  night 

In  fountains  silver  clear, 
Tempting  the  little  birds  to  come 

And  make  their  toilet  near. 

About  the  roots  of  flowers 
And  the  great  roots  of  trees, 

It  lingereth  as  tenderly 
As  saint  upon  his  knees. 


134  "WATER  AND    THE  SPIRIT." 

And  many  a  thirsty  soul 
Its  limpid  sweetness  quaffs, 

And  when  the  farmer  smells  the  rain 
How  merrily  he  laughs  ! 

O  rain  that  comes  from  Heaven  ! 

The  life  that  comes  from  God, 
Ere  it  returns,  more  paths  than  thine 

Shall  wonderihgly  have  trod. 

On  mountain  and  on  plain 

This  has  a  work  to  do, 
A  joy  to  get,  a  joy  to  give, 

That  cannot  be  for  you. 

This  shall  have  rills  to  feed, 
And  cool  the  heated  ways ; 

This  too  shall  bubble,  fountainwise, 
For  many  pleasant  days. 

And  this  where  all  is  dark, 
As  it  were  underground, 

Shall  nurse  the  hidden  roots  of  power 
With  never  voice  or  sound. 

And  this  for  those  who  thirst, 
All  tired  and  sore  of  feet, 

Must  be  the  cup  of  water  cold 
For  His  disciple  meet. 


BAPTISMAL.  135 

O  child,  so  fresh  from  heaven, 

What  omens  sweet  and  grand 
Run  up  to  kiss  thy  tiny  feet 

Like  waves  upon  the  sand  ' 

Wave-omens,  kiss  and  kiss  \ 

Our  hearts  accept  you  all, 
And  dare  believe  more  blessings  wait 

Than  we  have  words  to  call. 


Brooklyn,  1873. 


136  CATCHING   SUNSHINE. 


CATCHING   SUNSHINE. 


V  next  door  neighbor's  little  girl, 

A  cunning  two-year-old, 
Wondered  one  day  why  drooped  her  flowers, 
And  pleaded  to  be  told. 


Then  said  her  mother,  "  Here  in-doors 
The  sunshine  doesn't  come 

To  warm  and  bless  and  gladden  them, 
And  make  them  feel  at  home." 


Next  morning  when  she  went  to  seek 


Her  darling  at  her  play, 
le  found  her  standing  in  tl 
In  just  the  queerest  way  ; 


For  there  she  held  aloft  a  cup 

Above  her  pretty  head. 
"  What  are  you  doing,  Lolo  dear  ? M 

Mamma,  astonished,  said. 


CATCHING   SUNSHINE.  137 

And  she,  her  cup  still  held  aloft,  — 
Bless  her,  ye  Heavenly  Powers  !  — 

"  I'm  catching  sunshine,  mother  dear, 
To  give  my  'ittle  f  owers." 

Type  of  all  children  there  was  she, 

Who  in  life's  garden  stand, 
Still  holding  tenderly  aloft 

Their  life-cup  in  their  hand. 

We,  buried  in  our  sordid  cares, 

Are  plants  that  droop  and  die ; 
They  catch  God's  sunshine  as  it  flows 

For  ever  from  on  high. 

Upon  our  weary,  aching  hearts 

They  let  its  blessing  fall ; 
Their  office  this  in  every  land, 

In  cottage,  hut,  and  hall. 

And  so  the  world  is  kept  alive, 

And  freshened  every  minute, 
By  the  dear  grace  that  overflows 

The  children  who  are  in  it. 


1869. 


138  GIFTS  IN  SLEEP. 


GIFTS    IN    SLEEP. 

UR  sweet  boy-baby  had  a  gift, 

A  home-made  rabbit,  soft  and  white 
By  day,  by  night,  awake,  asleep, 
It  evermore  was  his  delight. 


Beauty  and  use  could  not  agree, 

It  lost  its  whiteness  more  and  more ; 

It  lost  its  tail,  it  lost  its  ears : 
He  loved  it  better  than  before. 

And  still  the  grimy  little  heap 

He  tucked  beneath  his  dainty  chin ; 

And  still  to  bed  without  his  pet 
Was  sure  to  brew  a  dreadful  din. 

Nightly  we  found  his  rosy  cheek 

Against  his  battered  darling  pressed. 

A  vote  was  passed  :  when  Christmas  came, 
He  should  of  it  be  dispossessed, 


GIFTS  IN  SLEEP.  139 

And  in  its  place,  at  dead  of  night, 

Another  should  be  slyly  placed, 
With  coat  of  down  as  snowy  white 

As  a  wee  rabbit  ever  graced. 

The  deed  was  done.     Not  without  tears 

We  took  the  dear  old  pet  away, 
And  wrapped  it  up  and  marked  it  plain, 

To  keep  against  some  distant  day, 

When,  haply,  to  some  boy  of  his 

He  might  the  frowzy  relic  show, 
For  proof  that  he  was  true  in  love 

Some  five-and-twenty  years  ago. 

Where  lay  the  old  we  laid  the  new, 
And  waited  for  the  Christmas  morn, 

As  wait  a  hundred  million  hearts 

For  the  dear  time  when  Christ  was  born. 

It  came  at  length,  and  baby  woke, 

To  clutch  his  precious  liebling  iast  \  — 

It  was  the  same,  yet  not  the  same ! 
Its  squalor  with  the  night  had  passed ! 

He  looked  at  first  with  dubious  face, 
But  soon  resolved  that  all  was  right ; 

So  cuddled  it  the  livelong  day, 

And  pressed  it  to  his  cheek  at  night 


140  THE   CHILDREN'S   CHRISTMAS. 

And  then  I  thought,  'T  is  writ  "  He  gives 
To  His  beloved  while  they  sleep ;  " 

And  deeper  meanings  found  me  out, 
While  lay  my  boy  in  slumbers  deep. 


THE   CHILDREN'S   CHRISTMAS. 

|HIS  little  pageant,  well  I  know, 
Inspired  by  love  did  sweetly  grow ; 
And  well  I  know  the  pageant  vast, 
All  beautiful  from  first  to  last, 
Of  worlds  on  worlds  in  phalanx  deep, 
From  suns  that  blaze  to  vines  that  creep, 
From  planets  singing  on  their  way 
To  flowers  that  dread  the  eye  of  day, 
From  rivers  that  rejoicing  go 
To  brooks  that  murmur  sweet  and  low, 
From  genius,  with  its  years  of  fame, 
To  simple  lives  devoid  of  blame,  — 
Oh,  well  I  know  this  pageant  fair 
Is  proof  of  love  beyond  compare  ! 

O  Love,  that  dost  with  goodness  crown 
The  years  through  all  the  ages  down  ! 


THE   CHILDREN'S  CHRISTMAS,  14T 

'Tis  in  Thy  strength  the  mountains  stand. 
The  seasons  roll  at  Thv  command, 
And  rooted  are  all  things  that  bless 
Deep  in  Thy  everlastingness. 
The  pith  of  all  our  Christmas  cheer 
Is  that  Thy  life  is  ever  near ; 
Within  Thy  circling  arms  we  lie, 
Lapped  in  Thy  great  infinity. 

■ 
All  praise  and  honor  to  His  name, 
Who,  spite  of  taunt  and  cruel  shame, 
Was  brave  to  teach,  as  wise  to  know, 
That  these  great  things  are  surely  so. 
For  this  our  loving  court  we  pay 
At  His  dear  feet  on  Christmas  day ; 
For  this  through  all  the  coming  years, 
In  all  our  joys  and  hopes  and  fears, 
We  still  will  pay  Him  reverence  due, 
And  in  His  witness,  brave  and  true, 
Hear  echoes  clear,  through  all  the  din, 
Of  that  deep  voice  which  speaks  within. 

Brooklyn,  1872. 


i  \2  GRACE  BEFORE  MEAT. 


GRACE   BEFORE   MEAT. 

GAIN  the  Christmas  board  is  spread, 
Again  we  gather  round  ; 
And  thanks  too  deep  for  words  go  up 
To  God  without  a  sound. 


Thanks  for  the  common  blessings  first, 

The  commonest  of  all, 
The  daily  bread,  the  manna  sweet, 

That  never  fails  to  fall,  — 

The  daily  bread,  the  daily  joy, 
The  greeting  morn  and  eve, 

The  kiss  of  love,  the  kiss  of  peace 
Which  daily  we  receive. 

And  if  with  all  the  joy  He  sends 

Some  grief  is  also  there, 
We  praise  Him  still  that  He  doth  give 

The  patience  that  can  bear,  — 


GRACE  BEFORE  MEAT.  1 43 

Can  bear,  and  through  the  bearing  find, 

Within  the  hardest  lot, 
Some  hidden  grace  which  none  may  know 

Save  those  who  have  it  got. 

But  shall  this  merry  time  go  past, 

And  thanks  remain  unsped 
For  Him  who  said  so  long  ago, 

"  I  am  the  living  Bread  ; " 

For  Him,  star-lit  by  Mary's  smile, 

Whom  simple  shepherds  found, 
And  wise  men  from  the  brooding  East. 

Where  oxen  stood  around  ? 

No  wonder  that  they  worshipped  Him ! 

He  was  a  baby  sweet ; 
They  had  been  foolish  not  to  kneel 

And  kiss  His  rosy  feet. 

But  little  recked  they  as  He  lay 

In  such  a  lowly  place, 
That  He  should  be  the  Man  of  men, 

The  captain  of  His  race. 

We  differ  when  we  speak  of  Him, 

Our  words  are  not  the  same, 
But  in  our  heart  there  burns  foi   lye 

One  undivided  flame. 


144  ANNUS  MIRABILIS. 

Our  words  must  differ,  but  our  hearts 
Still  yield  Him  reverence  due ; 

We  love  in  spite  of  all  our  creeds ; 
Our  love  at  least  is  true. 

And  if,  above  the  starry  skies, 
He  knows  of  what  is  here, 

He  knows  there  is  a  place  for  Him 
At  all  our  Christmas  cheer. 

1873. 


ANNUS   MIRABILIS. 


1. 


HAT  year  of  all  Thy  years,  O  Father  mine, 
Is  not  more  wonderful  than  words  can  say  ? 
The  starry  night,  the  splendor  of  the  day  — 
Are  not,  all  years,  these  benefactions  thine  ? 
Doth  not  each  spring  reveal  a  life  divine, 
Each  summer  nourish  with  unstinted  ray, 
Each  autumn  make  the  leafy  woodlands  gay, 
And  load  with  clusters  every  clinging  vine  ? 
Doth  not  each  winter  make  the  silent  stars 
Into  more  awful  spaces  seem  withdrawn, 


ANNUS  MIRABILIS.  1 45 

And  deck  with  softer  radiance  the  cars 

That  speed  the  sunset  and  bring  back  the  dawn, 
And  over  hill  and  valley  slow  unfold 
A  vesture  rarer  than  were  cloth  of  gold  ? 


11. 


And  yet,  O  God !  the  half  has  not  been  told. 
I  have  not  named  the  rapture  of  delight 
When  new-born  spirits  break  upon  our  sight ; 

When  love,  at  first  so  timid,  groweth  bold, 

And  all  the  highest  heavens  seem  unrolled, 
That  we  may  read  in  characters  of  light 
Of  days  to  which  succeeds  no  dark'ning  night , 

But  the  night  cometh  drearily  and  cold. 

Yet  is  death  wonderful  as  well  as  life, 
And  wonderful  the  hope  of  life  in  store, 

And  wonderful  all  labor  and  all  strife 

For  better  things  than  e'er  have  been  before. 

Yea,  God,  the  wonder  of  thy  humblest  years 

Fills  all  my  soul  with  laughter  and  with  tears. 

December  31,  1874. 


146 


SADNESS  AND  GLADNESS. 


SADNESS   AND   GLADNESS. 


HERE  was  a  glory  in  my  house, 

And  it  is  fled  ; 
There  was  a  baby  at  my  heart, 
And  it  is  dead. 


And  when  I  sit  and  think  of  him, 

I  am  so  sad, 
That  half  it  seems  that  never  more 

Can  I  be  glad. 

If  you  had  known  this  baby  mine, 

He  was  so  sweet 
You  would  have  gone  a  journey  just 

To  kiss  his  feet. 


He  could  not  walk  a  single  step, 

Nor  speak  a  word ; 
But  then  he  was  as  blithe  and  gay 

As  any  bird 


SADNESS  AND   GLADNESS.  1 47 

That  ever  sat  on  orchard-bough, 

And  trilled  its  song, 
Until  the  listener  fancied  it 

As  sweet  and  strong 

As  if  from  lips  of  angels  he 

Had  heard  it  flow  ; 
Such  angels  as  thy  hand  could  paint, 

Angelico  ! 

You  cannot  think  how  many  things 

He  learned  to  know 
Before  the  swift,  swift  angel  came, 

And  bade  him  go  ; 

So  that  my  neighbors  said  of  him, 

He  was  so  wise 
That  he  was  never  meant  for  earth, 

But  for  the  skies. 

But  I  would  not  believe  a  word 

Of  what  they  said ; 
Nor  will  I,  even  now,  although 

My  boy  is  dead. 

For  God  would  be  most  wicked,  if. 

When  all  the  earth 
Is  in  the  travail  of  a  new 

And  heavenly  birth, 


148  SADNESS  AND   GLADNESS. 

As  often  as  a  little  Christ  is  found 

With  human  breath, 
He,  like  another  Herod,  should  resolve 

Upon  its  death. 

But  should  you  ask  me  how  it  is 

That  yours  can  stay, 
Though  mine  must  spread  his  little  wings 

And  fly  away, 

I  could  but  say,  that  God,  who  made 

This  heart  of  mine, 
Must  have  intended  that  its  love 

Should  be  the  sign 

Of  His  own  love ;  and  that  if  He 

Can  think  it  right 
To  turn  my  joy  to  sorrow,  and 

My  day  to  night, 

I  cannot  doubt  that  He  will  turn, 

In  other  ways, 
My  winter  darkness  to  the  light 

Of  summer  days. 

I  know  that  God  gives  nothing  to 

Us  for  a  day  ; 
That  what  He  gives  He  never  cares 

To  take  away. 


SADNESS  AND   GLADNESS.  1 49 

And  when  He  comes  and  seems  to  make 

Our  glory  less, 
It  is  that,  bye-and-bye,  we  may 

The  more  confess 

That  He  has  made  it  brighter  than 

It  was  before,  — 
A  glory  shining  on  and  oil 

For  evermore. 

And  when  I  sit  and  think  of  this, 

I  am  so  glad, 
That  half  it  seems  that  never  more 

Can  I  be  sad. 


Brooklyn,  1865. 


*5° 


LITTLE  HA XX A II. 


LITTLE   HANNAH. 


HEN  the  earliest  life  of  spring 
First  began  to  stir  the  sod, 
And  a  blossom  here  and  there 
Softly  sang  the  praise  of  God, 


On  a  day  of  days  there  sprang, 
Perfect  from  the  dim  unknown, 

Such  a  flower  as  never  yet 

Had  in  field  or  meadow  grown. 

Yet  indeed  akin  it  was 

To  the  blossoms,  sweet  and  rare, 
That  in  March  their  beauty  bring 

To  the  eager,  waiting  air. 


Little  sister  did  she  seem 

Of  the  wind-flowers  full  of  grace; 
( )f  the  %i  Quaker-ladies  "  one, 

( )r  the  arbutus'  gentle  race. 


LITTLE   IIAXNAH-  I  5  x 

Cousin  of  the  violets  too, 

With  their  color  in  her  eyes, 
Greeting  all  the  wonder  new 

With  a  look  of  sweet  surprise. 

All  the  flowers  that  with  her  came, 

Had  their  hour  and  went  away ; 
But  the  little  blue-eyed  maid 

Tarried  many  a  pleasant  day. 

Thrice  the  spring  to  summer  grew, 
Thrice  the  merry  autumn  browned, 

Thrice  the  winter  whiteness  fell 
Tenderly  adown,  around. 

But  before  again  the  spring 

'Gan  to  softly  shoot  and  stir, 
Happy  ways  that  she  had  known, 

Knew,  alas,  no  more  of  her  ! 

Gone  the  dainty  little  maid  ! 

Gone  the  blossom  heavenly  fair  ! 
Gone,  —  but  leaving  all  around 

Wondrous  sweetness  in  the  air. 

Flowers  are  still  her  next  of  kin, 
Flowers  that  are  so  dainty  sweet ; 

Pansies  are  for  thoughts  of  her, 
Roses  for  her  gladness  meet. 


152  LITTLE  HANNAH. 

And  in  all  her  little  world, 
If  you  can,  the  smallest  spot 

Find,  that  does  not  sweetly  show 
Blossoms  of  forget-me-not. 

January  28,  1883. 


A    DOUBLE  MEANING.  1 53 


A   DOUBLE    MEANING. 


AMMA,  I  see  you  over  there," 

He  said,  and  then  he  sank  to  rest, 
Happy  to  feel  that  she  was  near 
To  guard  and  tend  his  little  nest. 


But  when  the  morning  broke,  it  brought 
Another  night  of  deeper  gloom  ; 

For  the  blue  heaven  of  Jamie's  eyes 
No  longer  lighted  all  the  room. 

No  answering  word  or  look  or  smile 
Our  hungry  hearts  might  hope  to  win  , 

And  the  faint  breathing  fainter  grew, 
Then  stopped,  and  did  no  more  begin. 

"  Mamma,  I  see  you  over  there  : " 
No  simpler  words  could  he  have  said, 

But  now  that  he  is  gone  they  seem 
A  message  from  the  living  dead. 


154  A    DOUBLE  MEANING. 

"  I  see  you  over  there,"  it  says, 

"  Father  and  Mother,  in  your  pain ; 

I  see  the  way  that  I  have  come, 
But  may  not  traverse  it  again. 

"  But  still  my  thought  can  go  to  you, 
As  yours  can  come  and  stay  with  me ; 

And  each  can  know  the  other  near, 
And  greatly  joy  with  it  to  be. 

"  And  so  if,  as  the  days  go  past, 

Our  thoughts  can  thus  together  bide, 

Whate'er  is  missed,  are  we  not  still 
Living  together  side  by  side  ? " 

This  is  the  message.     Well  we  know 
'Tis  but  the  echo  of  our  prayer  ; 

And  yet  we  trust  that  'tis  a  sign 
Of  what  is  true  of  Here  and  There. 


1873 


UNDER    THE   SNOW.  I  55 


UNDER  THE   SNOW. 

EEP  under  snow  the  mountain  world 
For  many  a  week  had  lain ; 
Deep  in  my  heart  for  many  a  year 
Had  hid  its  viewless  pain. 


There  came  a  day  of  warmer  sun 

From  out  the  winter  sky, 
And  premonitions  of  the  spring 

Went  wandering  softly  by. 

And  lo,  a  bit  of  earth  revealed  ! 

And  lo,  at  little  feet 
Pressing  the  cold  and  cheerless  sod, 

One  pansy,  pure  and  sweet ! 

"  Pansies  for  thoughts  !  "  and  oh,  for  me 

This  pansy  of  the  snow 
Has  thoughts  that  deeper  than  the  depths 

Of  mountain  bases  go,  — 


156  UNDER    THE  SNOW. 

Thoughts  of  my  little  baby  flower 
Beneath  the  mounded  sod ; 

Thoughts  of  the  baby  life  that  lives 
Forevermore  with  God. 

Oh,  gently  falls  the  glistening  snow 
Where  he  so  long  has  lain  ! 

Oh,  gently  fall  the  years  of  God 
Upon  my  bitter  pain  ! 

Fall  deeper  yet,  O  years  of  God  ! 

There  comes  another  day 
When  winds  from  off  the  hills  beyond 

Shall  melt  your  snows  away ; 

And  many  a  dear,  long-hidden  thing 
Shall  then  be  brought  to  light ; 

And  then  who  knows  but  my  lost  Face 
Shall  bloom  again,  as  bright 

As  this  wee  blossom,  hid  so  long, 

But  waiting  tenderly 
Till  it  could  bring  to  me  a  thought 

Of  Immortality  ! 

F  bruary  12,  1SS1. 


COMFORT    IN    SORROW. 


COMFORT  IN   SORROW. 


-♦<>•- 


A   SONG   OF  TRUST. 

LOVE  Divine,  of  all  that  is 
The  sweetest  still  and  best, 
Fain  would  I  come  and  rest  to-night 
Upon  thy  sheltering  breast. 

As  tired  of  sin  as  any  child 

Was  ever  tired  of  play, 
When  evening's  hush  has  folded  in 

The  noises  of  the  day  ; 

When  just  for  very  weariness 

The  little  one  will  creep 
Into  the  arms  that  have  no  joy 

Like  holding  him  in  sleep  ; 

And  looking  upward  to  Thy  face, 
So  gentle,  sweet,  and  strong 

In  all  its  looks  for  those  who  love, 
So  pitiful  of  wrong, 


160  A    SONG   OF  TRUST, 

I  pray  Thee  turn  me  not  away, 

For,  sinful  though  I  be, 
Thou  knowest  every  thing  I  need 

And  all  my  need  of  Thee. 

And  yet  the  spirit  in  my  heart 
Says,  Wherefore  should  I  pray 

That  Thou  shouldst  seek  me  with  Thy  love 
Since  Thou  dost  seek  alway  ? 

And  dost  not  even  wait  until 

I  urge  my  steps  to  Thee  ; 
But  in  the  darkness  of  my  life 

Art  coming  still  to  me. 

I  pray  not,  then,  because  I  would  ; 

I  pray  because  I  must ; 
There  is  no  meaning  in  my  prayer 

But  thankfulness  and  trust. 

I  would  not  have  Thee  otherwise 

Than  what  Thou  ever  art ; 
Be  still  Thyself,  and  then  I  know 

We  cannot  live  apart. 

But  still  Thy  love  will  beckon  me 
And  still  Thy  strength  will  come, 

In  many  ways  to  bear  me  up 
And  bring  me  to  my  home. 


A    SONG   OF   TRUST.  161 

And  Thou  wilt  hear  the  thought  I  mean, 

And  not  the  words  I  say ; 
Wilt  hear  the  thanks  among  the  words 

That  only  seem  to  pray ; 

As  if  Thou  wert  not  always  good, 

As  if  Thy  loving  care 
Could  even  miss  me  in  the  midst 

Of  this  Thy  temple  fair. 

If  ever  I  have  doubted  Thee, 

How  can  I  any  more, 
So  quick  to-night  my  tossing  bark 

Has  reached  the  happy  shore ; 

And,  even  while  it  sighed,  my  heart 

Has  sung  itself  to  rest, 
O  Love  Divine,  forever  near, 

Upon  Thy  sheltering  breast ! 


1865. 


1 62  THE    OTHER  SIDE. 


THE   OTHER   SIDE. 

LIMBING  the  mountain's  shaggy  crest, 
i  wondered  much  what  sight  would  greet 
My  eager  gaze  whene'er  my  feet 
Upon  the  topmost  height  should  rest. 


The  other  side  was  all  unknown ; 

But,  as  I  slowly  toiled  along, 

Sweeter  to  me  than  any  song 
My  dream  of  visions  to  be  shown. 

Meanwhile  the  mountain  shrubs  distilled 
Their  sweetness  all  along  my  way, 
And  the  delicious  summer  day 

My  heart  with  rapture  overfilled. 

At  length  the  topmost  height  was  gained  ; 

The  other  side  was  full  in  view ; 

My  dreams  —  not  one  of  them  was  true, 
But  better  far  had  I  attained. 


THE   OTHER  SIDE.  1 63 

For  far  and  wide  on  either  hand 

There  stretched  a  valley  broad  and  fair, 
With  greenness  flashing  everywhere,  — 

A  pleasant,  smiling,  home-like  land. 

Who  knows,  I  thought,  but  so  'twill  prove 
Upon  that  mountain-top  of  death, 
Where  we  shall  draw  diviner  breath, 

And  see  the  long-lost  friends  we  love. 

It  may  not  be  as  we  have  dreamed, 
Not  half  so  awful,  strange,  and  grand ; 
A  quiet,  peaceful,  home-like  land, 

Better  than  e'er  in  vision  gleamed. 

Meanwhile  along  our  upward  way 

What  beauties  lurk,  what  visions  glow  I 
Whatever  shall  be,  this  we  know 

Is  better  than  our  lips  can  say. 


Bethel,  Me.,  1874. 


1 64        NOS  M ORITUR!  TE   SALUTAMUS. 


NOS    MORITURI   TE   SALUTAMUS. 


OT,  Heavenly  Father,  that  we  ask  or  hope 
An  idle  heaven  beyond  the  sea  of  death, 
Do  we,  about  to  die,  salute  Thee  thus 
With  our  fast-failing  breath. 

For  we  have  found  the  dearest  joy  of  earth 
In  work  for  Thee  and  for  our  fellow-men ; 

Dying,  we  would  not  lay  the  burden  down ; 
As  now,  so  be  it  then. 

Not  that  we  claim  reward  for  duty  done, 

Though  ne'er  so  bravely,  in  this  mortal  strife, 

Do  we  demand  of  Thee,  O  God,  our  God, 
A  never-ending  life. 

For  it  has  been  reward  enough  for  us 
To  do  the  duty  for  its  own  sweet  sake. 

We  have  our  dues,  but  not  the  less  our  cry 
For  life  to  come  we  make. 


AVS  MORITURI   TE  SALUTAMUS.         165 

Over  a  few  things  we  have  faithful  been  : 
Now  over  many  do  Thou  give  us  rule ; 

For  work,  more  work  ;  for  lessons  learned,  to  be 
For  ever  in  Thy  school. 

Not  that  we  want  a  better  world  than  this  ; 

Rather  that  this  is  so  divinely  good; 
And  what  is  best  in  it  doth  ever  taste 

As  'twere  immortal  food. 

Not  that  we  hope  to  reach  some  happy  shore, 
Where  storms  shall  never  dim  the  summer  sky, 

Where  struggle,  sorrow,  pain,  shall  be  no  more, 
Seems  it  less  hard  to  die. 

We  know  too  well  the  good  of  sorrow  here ; 

What  after  freshness  lurks  in  every  storm  ; 
What  strength  and  beauty,  pain  and  struggle,  bring 

In  their  forbidding  form. 

Thus,  O  our  Father,  we  about  to  die 
Salute  Thee,  not  in  selfishness  or  fear  ; 

And  dare  believe  that  there  is  more  beyond 
Than  we  have  dreamed  of  here. 


1870. 


1 66  LIFE  AFTER  DEATH. 


LIFE   AFTER   DEATH. 

OFT  was  the  air  of  spring,  and  at  his  feet 
The  turf,  full  swift,  was  turning  green  and 

sweet, 
As  from  the  city  Rabbi  Nathan  passed, 
Musing  on  Him  who  is  the  first  and  last. 


The  tuneful  birds  he  heard  in  woodlands  dim, 
Wooing  each  other  with  that  vernal  hymn, 
Which,  flowing  first  from  the  great  heart  above, 
Keeps  fresh  the  world  with  its  perpetual  love. 

Anon  he  came  to  where  with  eager  toil 
An  aged  man,  fretting  the  fragrant  soil 
With  his  sharp  spade,  did  make  a  space  to  set 
A  cobar  tree,  —  the  greatest  wonder  yet ! 

For  seventy  years  the  cobar  tree  must  grow, 
Full  seventy  years  leaves  bear  and  shadows  throw, 
Ere  to  fair  fruit  its  fair,  sweet  blossoms  turn, 
For  all  the  Day-god's  ever-flowing  urn. 


LIFE   AFTER    DEATH.  1 67 

"  What  madness  this  !  "  doth  Rabbi  Nathan  cry ; 
"  Thou  workest  here  as  one  not  born  to  die ; 
As  if  thyself  didst  hope  that  of  this  tree 
Fruit  yet  should  come  to  be  a  joy  to  thee." 

Then  turned  the  aged  man,  and  gently  said : 
"  This  tree  shall  grow  long  after  I  am  dead  ; 
But  though  its  fruit  my  hands  may  never  gain, 
My  planting,  Rabbi,  will  not  be  in  vain. 

u  Have  I  not  eaten  of  the  cobar  tree  ? 
My  father's  father  planted  it  for  me. 
So  plant  I  this,  that  in  the  coming  days 
My  children's  children  may  my  labor  praise." 

"Thou  fool  !  "  the  Rabbi  said,  "  to  work  for  those 
Who  may  or  not  be,  Heaven  only  knows. 
All  earthly  things  full  soon  must  pass  away, 
'Tis  only  work  for  Heaven  that  will  pay." 

He  wandered  on,  and,  as  the  sun  now  low, 

Rushed  to  its  setting,  and  a  sudden  glow 

Filled  all  the  west,  he  laid  him  down  to  sleep, 

Nor  guessed  how  long  the  charm  its  power  would  keep. 

For  many  a  moon  did  wax  and  wane  again, 
And  many  a  year  did  bring  its  joy  and  pain, 
Ere  he  awoke,  and  not  far  off  beheld 
What  seemed  the  tree  that  he  had  known  of  eld. 


1 68  LIFE  AFTER  DEATH. 

But  now  it  was  full  grown,  and  at  its  root 
A  man,  full  grown,  was  eating  of  its  fruit, 
Who  said,  when  asked  how  came  it  thus  to  be, 
"  My  father's  father  planted  it  for  me." 

Then  Rabbi  Nathan  knew  that  seventy  years, 
With  all  their  precious  freight  of  smiles  and  tears, 
Had  fled  since  he  had  lain  iiim  down  to  sleep, 
And  felt  the  slumber  o'er  his  eyelids  creep. 

He  wandered  back  into  the  city  street, 
But  saw  no  friend  with  voice  of  love  to  greet ; 
Yet  in  the  schools  where  he  of  old  did  teach, 
He  heard  the  sages  quote  his  silver  speech. 

And  then  he  saw  that  not  in  heaven  alone, 
But  here  on  earth,  we  live  when  we  are  gone ; 
Too  late  he  learned  the  lesson  of  to-day : 
The  world  goes  on  when  we  are  gone  away. 

The  world  goes  on  ;  and  happiest  is  he 
Who  in  such  wise  wins  immortality, 
That,  should  he  sleep  for  ever  in  the  grave, 
His  work  goes  on  and  helps  the  world  to  save. 

March,  187  i. 


KING  EDWIN'S  FEAST.  169 


KING   EDWIN'S    FEAST. 


HERE  was  feasting  in  the  hall 
And  the  beards  wagged  all. 
Oh  !  the  board  was  heaped  with  food, 
And  the  ale  was  like  a  flood, 
And  'twas  bitter  winter  weather 
When  King  Edwin  and  his  eldormen  and  thanes 
Were  a-feasting  thus  together. 


As  the  board  was  heaped  with  food, 
So  the  hearth  was  piled  with  wood  ; 
Ay,  with  oaken  logs  a  score  ; 
And  the  flames  did  leap  and  roar, 

And  they  cast  a  ruddy  glow 
On  King  Edwin  and  his  eldormen  and  thanes 

As  they  feasted  in  a  row. 

All  at  once  they  were  aware 

Of  a  flutter  in  the  air, 

As  a  little  sparrow  came 

In  between  them  and  the  flame, 


I  JO  KING   EDWIN'S  FEAST. 

Then  a  moment  flew  around, 
While  King  Edwin  and  his  eldormen  and  thanes 
Wondered  whither  he  was  bound. 

Then  he  vanished  through  the  door, 
And  they  never  saw  him  more  ; 
But  up  spoke  a  noble  Thane, 
As  a  silence  seemed  to  reign, 

And  a  wonder  seemed  to  fall 
On  King  Edwin  and  his  eldormen  and  thanes 

As  they  feasted  in  the  hall : 


"What  is  all  this  life  ot  ours, 
With  its  graces  and  its  powers  ? 
It  is  like  the  bird  that  came 
In  between  us  and  the  flame, 
Stayed  a  moment  in  the  room 
With  King  Edwin  and  his  eldormen  and  thanes, 
Then  was  off  into  the  gloom. 


"  So  we  come  out  of  the  night, 
Stay  a  moment  in  the  light 
Of  a  warm  and  pleasant  room, 
Then  go  forth  into  the  gloom. 

Hither  somehow  tempest-tost, 
O  King  Edwin  !  and  you,  eldormen  and  thanes, 

Then  again  in  darkness  lost." 


KING   EDWIN'S  FEAST.  I  7  I 

Then  another  silence  fell 

And  the  first  who  broke  the  spell 

Was  Paulinius,  the  Christian,  and  he  said, 

Lowing  low  a  reverent  head 

That  was  white  with  many  years, 
To  King  Edwin  and  his  eldormen  and  thanes, 

And  his  words  were  dim  with  tears  : 

"  Oh  !  not  merely  tempest-tost, 
Not  again  in  darkness  lost, 
Is  the  little  bird  that  came 
In  between  us  and  the  flame ; 

For  the  bird  will  find  his  nest. 
So,  King  Edwin,  and  you,  eldormen  and  thanes, 

Be  not  your  hearts  distressed. 

11  Not  from  darkness  comes  the  soul, 
Nor  shall  darkness  be  its  goal. 
For  that,  too,  there  is  a  nest, 
Whither  flying  it  shall  rest 

Evermore.     It  must  be  so." 
Said  King  Edwin  and  his  eldormen  and  thanes, 

"  Would  to  God  that  we  might  know  /" 


1874 


172  BUDDHA'S  LESSON, 


BUDDHA'S    LESSON. 

ISAGOTAMI  saw  her  first  child's  face  ; 
She  saw  him  grow  in  knowledge  and  in  grace ; 
But  it  was  only  for  a  little  space. 

Kisagotami  saw  him  lying  dead  ; 

Against  her  heart  she  pressed  his  curly  head, 

And  forth  into  the  neighbors'  houses  sped. 

"  Something  to  heal  my  darling's  hurt !  "  she  cried. 
"  Girl,  thou  art  mad,"  was  all  that  each  replied. 
But  one :  "  Thy  cure  with  Buddha  doth  abide." 

Still  holding  the  dead  child  against  her  heart, 

She  found  the  prophet,  and  made  known  her  smart ; 

"  Buddha,  canst  cure  him  with  thy  wondrous  art  ? " 

"  A  grain  of  mustard-seed,"  the  sage  replied, 
"  Found  where  none  old  or  young  has  ever  died, 
Will  cure  the  pain  you  carry  in  your  side." 

Kisagotami  wandered  forth  again, 

And  in  the  homes  of  many  hundred  men 

She  sought  the  seed  where  death  had  never  been 


DEATH  AND   SPRING.  173 

'Twas  all  in  vain.     Then  in  a  lonely  wood 
Her  child  with  leaves  she  buried  as  she  could, 
And  once  again  in  Buddha's  presence  stood. 

u  Daughter,"  he  said,  "  hast  found  the  magic  seed  ?  " 
And  she  :  "  I  rind  that  every  heart  doth  bleed  ; 
That  every  house  of  death  hath  taken  heed.', 

Then  Buddha  said  :  "  This  knowledge  is  thy  cure. 
Thy  sorrow,  soon  or  late,  for  all  is  sure ; 
Therefore,  my  child,  be  patient  and  endure." 

February,  1874. 


DEATH  AND   SPRING 

C.    P.    G. 


Y  noble  friend  is  dead, 
And  in  his  narrow  bed 
The  earth  doth  gently  rest 
Upon  his  gentle  breast. 


And  still  the  sun  doth  pour 
Its  brightness  as  before  ; 
And  still  in  every  place 
The  spring  comes  on  apace ; 


1 74  DEATH  AND   SPRING. 

And  still  the  sweet  flowers  blow, 
The  flowers  he  cared  for  so  ; 
And  still  the  wee  birds  sing, 
At  rest  or  on  the  wing. 

"  O  cruel  sun,"  I  said, 
"  To  shine  when  he  is  dead ; 
O  cruel  spring,  to  come 
When  his  dear  lips  are  dumb  ; 
O  cruel  flowers,  to  bloom 
When  he  is  in  the  tomb ; 

0  cruel  birds,  to  sing, 
And  he  not  listening  !  " 

Then  from  an  inner  sky 

1  heard  a  soft  reply : 
"  Doth  any  day  go  by 

And  not  some  loved  one  die, 
Though  all  unknown  to  thee, 
As  clear  as  thine  could  be  ? 
Not  thou  alone  dost  cry 
For  nature's  sympathy. 
To  every  mourning  heart 
The  sunshine  brings  a  smart, 
The  spring  seems  all  too  gay, 
The  flowers  are  wished  away, 
The  birds'  songs  in  the  trees 
Are  subtle  mockeries. 


DEATH  AND   SPRING.  1 75 

"  If  grief  could  have  its  will, 
All  days  were  dark  and  chill. 
The  spring  would  never  come ; 
The  flowers  would  never  bloom  ; 
The  birds  would  never  sing, 
At  rest  or  on  the  wing. 

"  Rest,  troubled  spirit,  rest : 
God  knoweth  what  is  best. 

"  The  sunshine  thou  dost  chide 

Hath  healing  in  its  tide  ; 

The  spring  that  comes  apace 

Shall  touch  thee  with  its  grace  ; 

The  flowers  their  sweet  perfume 

Shall  shed  upon  his  tomb ; 

The  birds  in  woodlands  dim 

Shall  make  lament  for  him  ; 

And  thou  some  day  shalt  see 

That  it  was  best  for  thee 
That  all  thy  sorrow  was  so  strangely  blent 
With  nature's  harmony  of  full  content." 


May,  1874. 


*76  SEALED   ORDERS. 


SEALED   ORDERS. 

u  Thou  knowest  not  now,  but  thou  shalt  know  hereif  ter." 

UR  life  is  like  a  ship  that  sails  some  day 
To  distant  waters,  leagues  on  leagues  away ; 
Not  knowing  what  command  to  do  and  dare 
Awaits  her  when  her  eager  keel  is  there. 

Birth,  love,  and  death  are  ports  we  leave  behind, 
Borne  on  by  rolling  wave  and  rushing  wind  ; 
Bearing  a  message  with  unbroken  seal, 
Whose  meaning  fain  we  would  at  once  reveal. 

And  there  are  friends  who  stand  upon  the  shore 
And  watch  our  sail  till  it  is  seen  no  more  \ 
And  cry,  "  Oh  !  would  that  we  might  know  the  way 
The  brave  ship  goes  for  many  a  weary  day !  " 

It  may  not  be.     But  ever  and  anon 
Some  order,  sealed  at  first,  we  ope  and  con  ; 
So  learn  what  next,  so  east  or  westward  fly, 
And  ne'er  again  that  port  of  Birth  espy. 


SEALED    ORDERS.  1 77 

How  many  another  craft  goes  dancing  by ! 
What  pennants  float  from  morn  and  evening  sky  ! 
By  day  how  white  our  wake  behind  us  streams ! 
By  night  what  golden,  phosphorescent  gleams  ! 

There  comes  a  day  when  Love,  that  lies  asleep, 
The  fairest  island  in  the  mighty  deep, 
Wakes  on  our  sight ;  its  fragrant  shores  we  reach, 
And  grates  our  keel  upon  its  shining  beach. 

There  do  we  stay  awhile ;  but  soon  again 
We  trim  our  sails  to  seek  the  open  main  ; 
And  now,  whatever  winds  and  waves  betide, 
Two  friendly  ships  are  sailing  side  by  side. 

Where  lies  their  course  in  vain  they  seek  to  know. 
"  Go  forth,"  the  Spirit  says,  and  forth  they  go  \ 
Enough  that,  wheresoever  they  may  fare, 
Alike  the  sunshine  and  the  storm  they  share. 

Islands  that  none  e'er  visited  before 
Invite  to  land  with  easy-shelving  shore ; 
Circes  and  Sirens  fling  their  challenge  out, 
Charybdis  deafens  Scylla's  deafening  shout ; 

But  still  these  ships  keep  joyful  company, 
And  many  a  new,  strange  land  they  haste  to  see. 
In  port  of  Love  'twas  pleasant  to  abide, 
But,  oh  !  Love's  sea  is  very  deep  and  wide. 


1/8  SEALED   ORDERS. 

Ay,  deep  and  wide,  and  yet  there  comes  a  day 
When  these  fond  ships  must  sail  a  parted  way ; 
The  port  of  Death  doth  one  of  them  beguile, 
The  other  lingers  for  a  little  while. 

Lingers  as  near  as  she  may  dare  to  go, 
And  plies  the  cold,  gray  offing  to  and  fro  ; 
Waiting,  impatient,  for  the  high  command 
To  sail  into  the  shadow  of  the  land. 

Is  this  the  end  ?     I  know  it  cannot  be. 
Our  ships  shall  sail  upon  another  sea ; 
New  islands  yet  shall  break  upon  our  sight, 
New  continents  of  love  and  truth  and  might. 

But  still  not  knowing,  still  with  orders  sealed, 
Our  track  shall  lie  across  the  heavenly  field  ; 
Yet  there,  as  here,  though  dim  the  distant  way, 
Our  strength  shall  be  according  to  our  day. 

The  sea  is  His.     He  made  it,  and  His  grace 
Lurks  in  its  wildest  wave,  its  deepest  place. 
Our  truest  knowledge  is  that  He  is  wise  ; 
What  is  our  foresight  to  His  sweet  surprise  ? 


1871. 


A'O  MORE   SEA.  \-jc) 


NO    MORE   SEA. 


i. 


S,  when  the  friends  we  dearly  love 

Go  sailing  over  sea, 
For  all  the  joy  to  which  they  go, 

Our  hearts  will  saddened  be  ; 


So  when  upon  that  sea  which  rolls 
All  earth  and  heaven  between, 

Those  whom  we  love,  upon  the  deck 
Of  death's  great  ship  are  seen  • 

For  all  the  joy  to  which  they  go, 
Though  heaven  be  e'er  so  sweet, 

And  e'er  so  good  and  wonderful 
The  folk  they  go  to  meet ; 

As  with  intensest  gaze  we  watch, 
And  see  them  fade  from  sight, 

God  help  us,  but  our  human  hearts 
Are  any  thing  but  light ! 


l8o  NO  MORE  SEA, 


II. 


As,  when  the  friends  we  dearly  love 

Have  gone  beyond  the  sea, 
The  far-off  lands  in  which  they  bide 

More  real  get  to  be  : 

So  when  our  loved  ones  once  have  crossed 

Deatlvs  lone  and  silent  sea, 
And  in  a  country  new  and  strange 

Found  immortality, 

The  heavenly  land  in  which  they  bide, 

Which  erst  did  ever  seem 
An  unsubstantial  pageant  vast,  — 

A  dreamer's  idle  dream,  — 

Becomes  as  solid  to  my  soul 

As  is  the  earth  I  tread, 
What  time  I  walk  with  reverent  feet 

The  city  of  the  dead. 

Not  Europe  seems  so  real  to  me, 

The  Alps  not  so  eterne, 
As  that  dear  land  for  which  at  times 

My  heart  doth  inly  burn. 


THREE   HAPPY  SOULS.  l8l 

And  not  so  sure  am  I  that  whom 

The  Atlantic's  waves  divide 
Will  meet  again  some  happy  day, 

And  linger  side  by  side, 

As  that  the  day  shall  surely  come 

When  I  with  all  I  love 
Shall  meet  again,  and  clasp  and  kiss, 

In  that  dear  land  above. 


May,  1870. 


THREE   HAPPY    SOULS. 


RARE  sweet  clay  of  June  !     What  is  it  gives 
To  thy  dear  rapture  a  diviner  power  ? 

It  is  that  I  have  seen  three  happy  sou's, 
All  in  the  fleeting  of  a  single  hour. 

One  was  a  maiden,  with  forereaching  sense 

Feeling  amid  the  lustre  of  her  hair 
The  fragrant  blossoms  of  that  wifely  crown 

Which,  when  June  days  are  longest,  she  will  wear. 

And  all  her  thoughts  were  going  to  and  fro, 
And  building  from  that  blessed  day  and  hour 

A  nest  wherein  her  heart  already  sang 

Sweet  son^s  of  home  and  love's  eternal  power. 


1 82  THREE  HAPPY  SOULS. 

One  was  a  mother,  and  her  babe,  new-born 

Lay  on  her  arm  and  murmured  'gainst  her  heart 

Something  that  had  no  need  of  words  to  tell 
The  mystic  meaning  it  would  fain  impart. 

She  understood.     God  had  revealed  Himself 
Once  more,  as  in  the  manger-nest  of  old ; 

She,  too,  had  seen  the  Father,  full  of  grace,  — 
Did  even  then  Him  to  her  bosom  hold. 

And  these  were  happy.     But  the  happiest 
Was  one  who  waited  for  a  voice  to  say, 

"  Friend,  come  up  higher."     Fearing  only  this  : 
That  he  might  be  too  willing  to  obey. 

For  pain  had  worked  on  him  its  perfect  will, 

And  weaned  him  quite  from  all  our  earthly  ways, 

And  it  was  joy  to  think  of  rest  at  last 
And  the  long  quiet  of  the  heavenly  days. 

The  maiden  love  had  found,  the  mother  life ; 

He  had  found  both  in  finding  death  alone  ; 
And,  as  the  bridegroom  murmurs  to  the  bride, 

Murmured  his  heart,  "  My  Beautiful,  my  own  !  " 

Oh,  think  not  that  with  fancies  sweet  and  fond 
He  cheated  his  poor  heart  to  false  repose  ! 

Our  bravest  hopes  are  shadows  vague  and  cold 
Of  better  things  the  Spirit  only  knows. 


THE    TWO    WAITINGS.  1 83 

The  child  shall  grow  apace;  the  bridal  wreath 
Shall  win  a  costlier  beauty  and  perfume  ; 

While  he  whom  we  call  dead  shall  work  and  wait 
In  other  gardens  of  perennial  bloom. 

Brooklyn,  June,   1S72. 


THE   TWO   WAITINGS. 


1. 


EAR  hearts,  you  were  waiting  a  year  ago 
For  the  glory  to  be  revealed  ; 
You  were  wondering  deeply,  with  bated  breath, 
What  treasure  the  days  concealed. 


Oh,  would  it  be  this,  or  would  it  be  that  ? 

Would  it  be  girl  or  boy  ? 
Would  it  look  like  father  or  mother  most  ? 

And  what  should  you  do  for  joy? 

And  then  one  day,  when  the  time  was  full, 
And  the  spring  was  coming  fast, 

The  tender  grace  of  a  life  out-bloomed, 
And  you  saw  your  baby  at  last. 


1 84  THE    TWO    WAITINGS. 

Was  it,  or  not,  what  you  had  dreamed  ? 

It  was,  and  yet  it  was  not ; 
But,  oh  !  it  was  better  a  thousand  times 

Than  ever  you  wished  or  thought. 


ii. 


And  now,  dear  hearts,  you  are  waiting  again, 

While  the  spring  is  coming  fast ; 
For  the  baby  that  was  a  future  dream 

Is  now  a  dream  of  the  past ; 

A  dream  of  sunshine,  and  all  that's  sweet , 

Of  all  that  is  pure  and  bright ; 
Of  eyes  that  were  blue  as  the  sky  by  day, 

And  as  soft  as  the  stars  by  night. 

You  are  waiting  again  for  the  fulness  of  time, 

And  the  glory  to  be  revealed ; 
You  are  wondering  deeply,  with  aching  hearts, 

What  treasure  is  now  concealed. 

Oh,  will  she  be  this,  or  will  she  be  that  ? 

And  what  will  there  be  in  her  face 
That  will  tell  you  sure  that  she  is  your  own 

When  you  meet  in  the  heavenly  place  ? 


WHERE? 


[85 


As  it  was  before,  it  will  be  again, 
Fashion  your  dream  as  you  will ; 

When  the  veil  is  rent,  and  the  glory  is  seen, 
It  will  more  than  your  hope  fulfil. 


April,  1873. 


WHERE  ? 


HAT  is  her  body  lying  there, 

So  sweetly  still, 
As  if  but  sleep  had  worked  thereon 
Its  perfect  will. 

The  violets  strewn  about  her  seem 

To  haunt  her  rest ; 
And,  as  in  dreams,  she  clasps  the  rose 

Upon  her  breast. 

How  strange  it  is  we  are  so  sure 

She  is  not  there, 
Though  all  her  precious  outwardness 

Is  still  so  fair ! 

For  we  have  seen  her  just  as  still 

Full  oft  before  ; 
But  now  we  know  those  drowsy  lids 

Will  ope  no  more. 


1 86  WHERE? 

She  is  not  there  \  and,  if  not  there, 

Where  must  she  be  ? 
Elsewhere  or  nowhere,  that  at  least 

Our  thought  can  see. 

Nowhere  ?     But  then  —  oh,  shallow  thought ! 

She  is  no  more. 
The  most  has  perished,  but  the  least 

Is  as  before. 

This  cannot  perish  ;  this  may  change 

From  form  to  form  ; 
In  grass  and  blossom  reaching  up 

To  sun  and  storm. 

A  thousand  summers  shall  grow  pale 

Through  all  the  land, 
And  still  her  precious  dust  shall  lie 

In  God's  right  hand ; 

And,  lying  there,  shall  take  the  shape 

He  thinketh  best, 
But  never  lovelier  than  is  now 

On  it  impressed. 

And  shall  the  garment  that  she  wore 

Exist  so  long, 
And  she  that  wore  it  be  —  as  is 

An  ended  song  ? 


WHERE?  187 

An  ended  song  ?     But  even  that 

Is  somewhere  still, 
It  doth  the  heart  with  burden  sweet 

Of  memory  fill. 

May  not  her  Somewhere  be  as  much 

As  that;  no  more  ? 
To  walk  in  dream-land  up  and  down 

A  sobbing  shore  ? 

To  live  in  deeds,  for  her  dear  sake 

Made  pure  and  true ; 
In  great  aspirings  that  from  her 

Their  being  drew. 

But  that  which  lieth  there,  so  still, 

In  grass  and  flower 
Shall  live  again,  nor  less  for  that 

Be  memory's  dower. 

And  shall  the  mask  she  wore  have  thus 

A  twofold  life, 
And  she  that  wore  it  only  live 

Where  thought  is  rife  ? 

And  so  from  Nowhere  back  my  heart 

Returns  in  glee ; 
She  is  not  there,  since,  having  been, 

She  still  must  be. 


[88  WHERE? 

But,  oh  !  how  vast  and  dim  appears 

That  Elsewhere  land, 
Where  she,  with  others  gone  before, 

Walks  hand  in  hand ! 

My  thought  goes  forth  to  seek  her  there, 

But  soon  returns, 
Dazed  by  that  rose  of  light  wherein 

Her  spirit  burns. 

Content  to  leave  her  there  in  peace 

With  her  dear  God, 
Jt  wanders  in  the  earthly  paths 

Her  feet  have  trod. 

Then  from  her  high  and  holy  place, 

Full  soon  I  know, 
Her  thought  sweeps  down,  my  thought  to  meet 

With  music  low. 

With  such  sweet  trysts  as  these  my  soul 

Can  be  content, 
Until  my  soul  with  hers  again 

In  heaven  is  blent. 

If  thou  in  thy  new  home  canst  be 

As  patient,  Sweet, 
Our  days  will  be  most  happy  till 

Again  we  meet. 


THEIR    THOUGHTS  &>    OUR    THOUGHTS.    189 


THEIR   THOUGHTS  .AND  OUR   THOUGHTS. 


F.     A.     B.     AND    J.     E.     C. 

IX  years  have  faded  since  she  went  away, 
Six  years  for  her  to  live  in  heavenly  places, 
To  learn  the  look  of  blessed  angel  faces  ; 
Six  years  to  grow  as  only  angels  may. 


I  wonder  oft  what  she  is  doing  there, 
By  the  still  waters  that  for  ever  flow ; 
What  mighty  secrets  she  has  come  to  know ; 

What  graces  won,  divinely  sweet  and  fair. 

I  wonder  whom  of  those  that  went  before, 
And  those  that  followed  on  her  shining  way, 
She  has  met  there  in  heaven's  auroral  day, 

And  if  they  talk  their  earth  life  o'er  and  o'er. 

I  think  this  very  morning  they  are  met, 
She  and  one  other  only  three  years  gone, 
In  some  dear  place  in  heaven  secure  and  lone, 

To  talk  of  things  they  never  can  forget. 


190     THEIR    THOUGHTS  &*   OUR    THOUGHTS. 

For  I  am  sure  that  naught  of  their  new  life, 
No  grace  or  glory  that  is  there  revealed, 
The  fountains  of  past  love  has  ever  sealed  ;  — 

That  these  will  ever  be  with  sweetness  rife. 

I  cannot  think  of  them  as  they  are  now, 

Of  the  new  light  that  shines  upon  their  faces  \ 
I  cannot  image  forth  their  angel  graces ; 

And  I  am  glad,  so  glad,  that  it  is  so. 

We  shall  get  used  to  such  things  by  and  by ; 

The  angels  will  not  miss  the  look  they  wore  ; 

For  us  they  wear  the  look  they  wore  before  ; 
No  other  look  with  that,  for  us,  can  vie. 

So  we  will  think  of  them  just  as  they  were, 

Their  voices  sweet  and  all  their  pleasant  ways  \ 
And  thoughts  like  these  shall  help  us  through 
the  days 

Until  we  go  to  meet  them  where  they  are. 

Marblehead,  July,  1872. 


RECOGNITION, 


191 


RECOGNITION. 


HEN  souls  that  have  put  off  their  mortal  gear 
Stand  in  the  pure,  sweet  light  of  heaven's 

day, 

And  wondering  deeply  what  to  do  or  say, 
And  trembling  more  with  rapture  than  with 
fear, 
Desire  some  token  of  their  friends  most  dear, 

Who  there  some  time  have  made  their  happy  stay, 
And  much  have  longed  for  them  to  come  that  way, 
What  shall  it  be,  this  sign  of  hope  and  cheer  ? 
Shall  it  be  tone  of  voice  or  glance  of  eye  ? 
Shall  it  be  touch  of  hand  or  gleam  of  hair 
Blown  back  from  spirit-brows  by  heaven's  air,  — 
Things  which  of  old  we  knew  our  dearest  by  ? 
Oh,  naught  of  this ;  but,  if  our  love  is  true, 
Some  secret  sense  shall  cry,  'Tis  you  and  —  you ! 


Mav,   1876. 


I 92  IDENTITY. 


IDENTITY. 


¥OW  shall  I  know  myself  when  I  have  come 

To  that  strange  land  beyond  the  sea  of  death, 
Ere  the  first  voice  that  speaks  with  heavenly 
breath 
Shall,  out  of  all  the  sweet  and  murmurous  hum, 
Call  me  by  name  ?     How  know  ere  I  am  known 
That  I  am  he  who  once  in  other  spheres 
Drank  to  the  lees  so  many  golden  years 
And  called  so  many  loving  hearts  my  own  ? 
Doubtless,  my  God,  in  ways  I  cannot  guess, 

Thou  wilt  reveal  me  to  my  doubting  sense  ; 
But,  O  my  love,  the  sign  that  most  shall  bless, 

And  bring  the  swiftest,  surest  confidence, 
Shall  be  that  in  my  inmost  heart  I  find 
The  thought  of  thee  so  lovingly  enshrined. 


May,  1876. 


WITH  A    BOOK   OF  BALLADS.  193 


WITH  A  BOOK  OF  BALLADS. 

••  The  time  is  short." 

WEET  wife,  no  ballad,  when  our  days  are  o'er, 
Shall  tell  the  story  of  our  peace  and  pain  ; 
One  little  grave  shall  hold  our  common  dust, 
And  feel  the  fresh'ning  of  the  summer  rain. 

A  few  short  years,  mayhap,  our  names  shall  live 
In  children's  voices,  or  their  children's  sweet ; 

Then  all  shall  be  as  if  we  had  not  known 
This  joy  of  life  which  is  so  strange  and  fleet. 

Yet  none  the  less,  so  long  as  life  shall  last, 
We  will  drink  deep  of  joy's  eternal  spring ; 

Ay,  live  as  if  this  life  must  be  our  all,  — 
As  if  swift  death  would  sleep  eternal  bring. 

The  time  is  short ;  the  more  the  reason  then 

For  filling  it  as  full  as  it  can  hold 
With  thrills  of  beauty,  yearnings  for  the  truth, 

And  joys  of  love  and  labor  manifold. 

Then  should  it  chance,  as  we  would  fain  believe, 
Life's  glory  waits  us  in  some  other  sphere, 

Its  first  great  joy  shall  be  we  did  not  miss 
God's  meaning  in  the  glory  that  is  here, 

is. 


194 


THE  HEART  OF  IT. 


THE   HEART   OF   IT. 


Written  upon  finding  at  West  Point  a  blue-bird's  nest  in  an  unfilled  bombshell. 


SUMMER'S  day  in  leafy  June  ; 
The  birds  were  all  in  sweetest  tune. 

The  roses  at  their  best ; 
But  fairest  of  all  things  to  see, 
That  perfect  day  in  June  for  me, 

A  blue-bird's  peaceful  nest. 

I  found  it  in  a  hollow  shell 

Which  crowned,  as  I  remember  well, 

A  shapely  pyramid  ; 
Five  little  eggs  were  also  there, 
Blue  as  the  sky  when  'tis  most  fair, 

Half  in  the  grasses  hid. 

O  favored  shell  !  whose  kindred  went 
On  cruel  errands  to  be  sent, 

To  mutilate  and  kill ; 
Whilst  thou,  removed  from  all  the  strife, 
Dost  feel  with  love  and  dawning  life 

Thy  bosom  gently  thrill. 


THE  HEART  OF  IT  1 95 

I  said,  "  This  thing  which  here  I  see 
Shall  be  a  precious  prophecy 

Of  what  the  world  shall  win, 
When  all  the  days  of  war  shall  cease, 
And  all  the  blessed  years  of  peace 

Shall  gloriously  begin." 

And  better  yet :  peace  after  war 
Hath  many  an  ugly  rent  and  scar 

For  time  to  smooth  away  ; 
But  peace  in  war  doth  not  await 
A  blessing  coming  slow  and  late, — 

Its  blessing  is  to-day. 

My  bird's-nest  in  the  hollow  shell, 
A  heaven  miniature  in  hell, 

Shall  symbol  be  of  this : 
That  in  and  through  and  over  all, 
Whatever  seeming  curse  befall, 

God's  love  for  ever  is. 

He  doth  not  wait  till  war  is  done, 
And  all  its  barren  victories  won, 

To  enter  at  the  door  ; 
But  in  the  furnace  of  the  strife 
He  bears  for  aye  a  charmed  life, 

And  blesses  evermore. 


196 


HER   CHRISTMAS. 


Deep  at  the  heart  of  all  our  pain, 
In  loss  as  surely  as  in  gain, 

His  love  abideth  still. 
Let  come  what  will,  my  feet  shall  stand 
On  this  firm  rock  at  His  right  hand  : 

"  Father,  it  is  Thy  will." 


June,  1S67. 


HER   CHRISTMAS. 

HE  happy  town  is  all  astir, 

The  merry  crowds  go  up  and  down, 
The  bells  the  happy  voices  drown. 
But  what  is  all  of  this  to  her  ? 

It  7uas  so  much  ;  for  many  a  day, 

This  pleasant  Christmas  time  had  been 
Her  sweetest  music  ;  blessed  din, 

From  o'er  the  hills  and  far  away. 


And  she  was  full  of  little  schemes, 
In  loving-wise  of  help  and  cheer ; 
Life  was  so  sweet  and  love  so  dear; 

They  filled  the  night  with  happy  dream- 


HER   CHRISTMAS.  197 

And  now  the  wished-for  day  is  come  \ 
There  's  light  and  laughter  everywhere  ; 
But  she  is  lying  silent  there  : 

Her  eyes  are  closed,  her  lips  are  dumb. 

Love  could  not  stay  her  fleeting  breath ; 

On  Christmas  eve  it  fluttered  low; 

Then  Christmas  morning  came,  and,  oh, 
How  gentle  was  the  face  of  death ! 

Her  Christmas  !     Brings  the  day  to  her  — 
"  He  gives  to  His  beloved  sleep  "  — 
Only  this  gift  of  slumber  deep, 

Too  deep  for  any  voice  to  stir, 

Call  on  her  as  we  may  ?     Not  so  : 

Oh,  gift  with  grace  diviner  fraught 

Than  any  to  the  living  brought !  — 
What  follows  after  death  to  know. 

Dearest,  such  knowledge  is  for  thee  ; 

And  so  thy  Christmas  joy  is  more 

Than  swells  on  any  mortal  shore 
That  hears  the  moaning  of  the  sea. 


1884. 


198  THE    TRYSTING-PLACE. 


THE   TRYSTING-PLACE. 


"  Canst  thou  by  searching  find  out  God  ? " 


FRIEND  have  I,  true  lover  of  my  soul, 
Whose  lightest  word  to  me  is  dearer  far 

Than  any  treasure  which  the  dark  earth  holds, 
Or  any  beauty  of  the  morning  star. 


When  day  is  on  my  heart  He  enters  in 

And  crowns  it  with  the  brightness  of  His  grace ; 

But  more  I  joy,  when  night  envelops  me, 

To  feel  His  presence,  though  I  miss  His  face. 

But  there  are  times  when  foolish  love  of  self 
So  girdles  me  as  with  a  wall  of  flame, 

That,  should  He  seek  me,  He  would  find  me  not, 
Nor  answer  get  if  He  should  call  my  name. 

And  other  times  when  open  to  His  feet 

The  doors  of  my  poor  house  as  quickly  swing 

As  if  I  were  a  peasant,  and  the  friend 

For  whom  I  waited  had  been  born  a  king. 


THE    TRYSTING-PLACE.  1 99 

Thus  coming  once  when  I  was  at  my  best, 

He  said  "  My  friend,  I  would  not  have  thee  roam ; 

Dost  long  to  see  me  ?     Go  about  thy  work, 
And  I  will  come  and  visit  thee  at  home." 

And  I  in  love  with  all  His  noble  ways, 

Feeling  that  He  in  nothing  could  do  wrong. 

Assented,  saying,  "  Even  so  I  will ; 

But  quickly  come,  and  make  thy  visit  long, 

"  That  I  may  speak  with  Thee  of  hidden  things, 
Tell  Thee  alike  of  all  my  joy  and  pain, 

And  feel  Thy  freshness  all  my  spirit  through, 
As  summer's  roses  feel  the  summer  rain." 

And  then  we  parted  ;  but  another  day 

Had  not  passed  over  me  before  the  crowd 

Began  to  laugh  at  me  and  call  me  fool, 

With  here  and  there  a  voice  that  cried  aloud, 

"  Come,  seek  with  us  for  him  who  is  your  Friend." 
And  I  was  weak  enough  to  them  obey, 

And  follow  them,  despite  my  better  thought, 
For  many  a  night  and  many  a  weary  day. 

We  found  him  not,  though  ever  and  anon 
His  name  we  read  in  books  that  were  of  old, 

Which  said  that  once  His  presence  had  been  sweet, 
That  He  would  come  and  tenderly  enfold 


200  THE    TRYSTING-PLACE. 

To  His  warm  heart  some  man  of  humble  birth, 
And  talk  with  Him  in  language  just  as  mild 

As  that  which  any  mother  might  repeat 
Above  the  cradle  of  her  little  child. 

And  then  I  said,  "  This  glory  must  be  mine  : 
With  less  than  this  I  cannot  be  content ; " 

So  left  the  crowd  to  seek  Him  as  they  would, 
And  to  my  home  with  eager  feet  I  went. 

And  what  to  find  ?     My  Friend  awaiting  me, 
Here  in  His  place  as  He  had  been  before ; 

And  down  I  sank  as  if  it  ought  to  be 

That  he,  my  Friend,  would  be  my  Friend  no  more. 

But  He,  as  if,  no  beggar  for  His  grace, 
I  came  of  right  into  His  presence  fair, 

Lifted  me  up,  and  from  my  speechless  face 
Put  back  the  masses  of  my  tangled  hair, 

And  kissed  me  once  and  kissed  me  twice  again, 
And  said,  "  Not  greater  is  Thy  need  of  me 

Than  is  my  need,  although  it  seemeth  not, 
Of  living  and  communing  still  with  Thee." 


My  words  are  false,  and  yet  my  thoughts  are  true  , 
My  friend  is  God,  and  ever  by  His  grace, 

Although  by  searching  I  can  find  Him  not, 
My  soul  doth  serve  us  for  a  trysting-place. 


HIS  FORTUNE.  201 


HIS    FORTUNE. 


w.  II.  \v. 


N  the  pleasant  time  of  spring 

Came  my  noble  friend  to  me, 
Full  of  life  as  any  leaf 
Budding  on  the  orchard  tree. 


"  I  am  going  forth,"  he  said, 
"  Sailing  down  the  busy  world  : 

Fame  and  fortune  I  must  make 
Ere  again  my  sails  are  furled." 

Comes  the  winter  crisp  and  clear  : 
What  was  that  the  message  said  ? 

Spring  will  come  another  year  : 
Not  for  him,  for  he  is  —  dead  ! 


Yes,  thou  hast  made  thy  fortune,  noble  friend  ! 
We  shall  live  on,  and  coax  with  weary  toil 
Some  scanty  pittance  from  the  grudging  soil, 


202  HIS  F0RTUN1 

Or  strain  an  aching  back  long  years  to  tend 
Sticks  in  the  desert,  striving  still  to  mend 

Some  social  wrong,  or  with  a  few  to  moil 

For  truths  from  which  the  many  still  recoil : 
Long  is  the  way  and  doubtful  is  the  end. 
But  thou  hast  made  thy  fortune,  found  release 

From  sordid  care  and  every  grief  and  pain  ; 

Such  things  shall  trouble  thee  no  more  again  : 
From  every  sorrow  thine  is  sweet  surcease. 

Sailing  straight  on  across  the  unfathomed  main, 
Death  hast  thou  found,  and  finding  that  is  peace. 

1879. 


HEARD   FROM. 


203 


HEARD   FROM. 

LODDING  a  weary  way,  before  untried, 
It  chanced  I  came  upon  a  group  of  men 
Busy  about  their  work  with  eager  ken. 
I  spoke  to  them  of  one  who  late  had  died,  — 
Knowing  that  he  along  this  country-side 

Had  toiled  with  such  as  these,  o'er  hill  and  fen  ; 
Asked,  had  they  known  my  friend  ?     Oh,  gladness  when 
Man  after  man  with  tender  voice  replied, 

And  spoke  his  praise  ;  told  of  his  earnest  will, 
The  love  which  they  had  borne  him  deep  and  true, 

The  generous  passion  of  his  noble  skill, 
Still  doing  well  whate'er  was  his  to  do. 
Again  afoot,  I  said,  "  Pray  God  that  I 
May  so  be  heard  from  when  I  come  to  die." 


Zoar,  Mass.,  1875. 


204 


A    TALISMAN. 


A   TALISMAN. 

O  you  have  come,  my  daughter,  to  the  place 

Where  childhood  ends  and  maidenhood  begins. 
And  I,  straight-looking  in  your  happy  face, 
Where  joy  o'er  fear  its  daily  victory  wins 
And  hangs  its  laughing  banners  in  your  eyes, 

Make  question  what  to  bring  you,  —  what  the  gift 
That  shall  be  more  to  you  than  any  prize 

Of  gems  and  gold,  as  out  you  gayly  drift 
On  the  great,  wide,  immeasurable  sea? 

I  have  resolved.     Take  it,  and  to  thy  heart 
Hold  it  for  talisman  in  years  to  be. 

Then  if,  perchance,  our  ways  are  far  apart, 
Life-  or  death-severed,  say,  "  This  sacred  trust 
He  gave  me  once  :  We  can  do  what  we  must." 


November  25,  1SS3. 


A   DEDICATION.  205 


A   DEDICATION. 


j^fc^VY  darling  boy,  kissed  but  a  moment  since, 
And  laid  away  all  rosy  in  the  dark, 
Is  talking  to  himself.     What  does  he  say? 


Not  much,  in  truth,  that  I  can  understand ; 
But  now  and  then,  among  the  pretty  sounds 
That  he  is  making,  falls  upon  my  ear 
My  name.     And  then  the  sand- man  softly  comes 
Upon  him  and  he  sleeps. 

And  what  am  I, 
Here  in  my  book,  but  as  a  little  child 
Trying  to  cheer  the  big  and  silent  dark 
With  foolish  words  ?     But  listen,  O  my  God, 
My  Father,  and  among  them  thou  shalt  hear 
Thy  name.     And  soon  I  too  shall  sleep. 
When  I  awake  I  shall  be  still  with  thee. 


1879. 


IN    NAZARETH    TOWN. 


MAR  Y. 

(^f^YG/XG  of  one  who  bore  this  sweetest  name 

Long,  long  ago,  in  bygone  centuries, 
Mother  of  One  for  whom  our  Christmas  trees 

Arc  green  and  bright  with  never-ending  fame, 
I  think  of  one  whom  having  seen  we  loi'c, 

A  mother  Mary  of  these  latter  days,  — 
Mother  and  wife  and  friend  whose  simplest  praise 

The  memory  of  her  meekness  would  reprove ; 
Who,  bound  long  years,  was  patient  in  her  pain, 

A  ?id  still  forgot  her  own  in  others'  woe. 
Blessing  of  blessings  and  inunortal  gain, 

Such  grace  as  hers  to  so  divinely  know  ; 
Daring  believe  that  not  His  mother  trod 

With  whiter  feet  (his  highway  of  our  God  I 


IN    NAZARETH   TOWN. 

S  to  the  rose's  petals  pure 
The  rose's  heart  of  gold, 
Was  Nazareth  to  the  encircling  hills 
In  the  brave  days  of  old. 


The  narrow  street,  a  straggling  vine, 
Against  the  hillside  clung ; 

And  from  its  stem  the  village  homes 
In  meagre  clusters  hung. 

And  down  the  street,  with  eager  feet. 

The  village  mothers  came  : 
Let  fancy  follow  without  fear, 

And  listen  void  of  blame. 

A  simple  tale  they  have  to  tell, 
The  bubbling  spring  beside  : 

The  like  doth  come  a  thousand  times 
By  every  time  and  tide. 


210  IN  NAZARETH    TOWN. 

No  more  than  this,  •. —  enough  of  bliss 
For  Mary,  mother  mild, — 

Upon  her  breast  there  lies  at  rest 
A  little  new-born  child. 

O  happy  women  at  the  well, 
For  Mary's  sake  so  glad, 

Be  tender  with  the  tiny  babe 
And  with  the  growing  lad  ! 

Make  sweet  and  pleasant  to  his  feet 
The  path  while  yet  you  may  ; 

For  steep  and  rough  it  yet  shall  be 
For  many  a  weary  day. 


The  women  climb  the  rugged  street, 
And  two  there  are  that  come 

With  pleasant  chatter  to  the  door 
Of  good-man  Joseph's  home. 

With  them,  unseen,  we  enter  in  : 

We  see  the  humble  state  ; 
The  gentle  mother,  innocent 

Of  all  the  impending  fate. 

How  soft  she  sleeps,  the  blessed  child 

Upon  her  bended  arm  ! 
How  far  away  they  seem  to-day 

From  all  the  things  that  harm  ! 


IN  NAZARETH    TOWN.  211 

O  mother  Mary,  closer  press 

Your  baby  to  your  heart ! 
There  comes  a  day  when  nothing  may 

Allay  its  cruel  smart. 

Those  little  feet  have  errands  long 

For  God  and  man  to  go ; 
Those  little  hands  must  break  the  chains 

Of  many  a  grinding  woe. 

That  little  piping  voice  shall  wax 

So  terrible  and  strong, 
That  it  shall  shatter  down  the  walls 

Of  many  an  ancient  wrong. 

O  happy  mother,  were  it  thine 

To  see,  as  we  can  see, 
All  the  fierce  pain  of  heart  and  brain 

That  waits  for  him  and  thee,  — 

The  wrath  of  men,  the  hate,  the  scorn, 

The  tried  and  tempted  will, 
The  friends  that  falter  and  betray, 

The  enemies  that  kill,  — 

Would  strength  be  thine  to  bear  the  load, 

To  choose  the  fateful  way 
For  him  for  whom  thy  life  has  gone 

In  pledge  this  happy  day? 


212  IN  NAZARETH    TO  WW. 

We  may  not  guess  ;  nor  yet  conceive 

Would  joy  or  pain  be  thine, 
If  thou  with  prescient  heart  couldst  all 
The  coming  years  divine,  — 

Couldst  see  beyond  the  scourge  and  cross, 
Beyond  the  curse  and  shame, 

Millenniums  of  godhead  wait 
To  crown  his  glorious  name. 


Doth  even  now  some  vision  come 

Of  all  the  things  to  be, 
That  troubled  looks  across  thy  face 

Like  conscious  shadows  flee? 

Till  thou  dost  start,  and  seem  to  cry : 
"  Oh,  less  and  less  of  this  ! 

Your  God  is  not  the  man  I  bore, 
Whose  lips  I  dared  to  kiss." 


1  >ear  mother  of  the  holy  child, 
Thy  plea  is  not  in  vain  : 

Behold  the  God  of  centuries  long 
Becomes  a  man  again  ! 


IN  NAZARETH   TOWN.  213 

Fade  out  the  sophist's  tangled  schemes 

As  visions  of  the  night ; 
Breaks  in  the  dawn  of  better  things 

As  breaks  the  morning  light. 

O  brother  of  the  righteous  will, 

O  brother  full  of  grace  ! 
Once  more  the  human  glory  bathes 

Thy  grave  and  earnest  face. 

But  all  of  this  to  thee  is  strange, 

As,  safe  from  every  harm, 
Thou  liest  soft  and  warm  and  sweet 

Upon  thy  mother's  arm. 

And  little  dream  the  village  folk, 

Upon  the  hillside  brown, 
What  wondrous  fame  their  Jesus'  name 

Shall  bring  to  Nazareth  town. 


December  25,  1882. 


A    LEGEND    OF   GOOD    POETS. 


DELIVERED   JUNE   25,    1885,   TO    THE    PHI    BETA   KAPPA 
FRATERNITY    OF    HARVARD   UNIVERSITY. 


INSCRIBED   TO 

MY   FRIEND   AND   TEACHER 

FREDERIC   HENRY   HEDGE. 


A    LEGEND   OF   GOOD    POETS. 

^§'E  bold,"  the  legend  ran,  "  Be  bold," 
Then,  like  a  billow,  backward  rolled 
And  broken,  said,  "  Be  not  too  bold." 


Alas  !  too  bold,  I  fear,  am  I, 
A  slender  oaten  reed  to  try 
Where  trumpets  echo  to  the  sky. 

If  but  the  will  could  find  a  way, 
So  rare  a  music  would  I  play 
That  one  should  to  the  other  say, 

"  This  fellow  ne'er  before  was  seen 
Here  in  our  broad  and  fair  demesne  ; 
And  yet  he  pipeth  well,  I  ween." 

Oh  for  one  spark  of  such  a  fire 

As  that  which,  flaming  high  and  higher, 

Smokeless,  we  saw  at  length  expire  ! 

It  sweetened  all  the  atmosphere 
With  pure  affections,  and  with  dear 
Homekeeping  thoughts  to  help  and  cheer. 


2l8  A    LEGEND   OF  GOOD  POETS, 

Beneath  your  elms  he  walks  no  more ; 
1 1  is  foot  no  longer  treads  the  floor 
Whereon  our  greatest  trod  of  yore. 

Gone  !  but  his  place  is  kept  apart ; 
Wide  as  the  range  of  human  art 
He  is  —  the  Poet  of  the  Heart. 


And  where  is  he,  the  gentle  seer, 

Whose  thought  and  speech  were  cool  and  clear 

As  mornings  of  the  opening  year  ? 

Eyes  was  he  to  our  feeble  sight, 
Ears  to  our  deafness,  and  a  light 
On  every  path  of  truth  and  right. 

He  comes  no  more ;  but,  should  he  roam 

Wide  as  the  all-embracing  dome 

Of  heaven,  he  still  would  be  at  home. 

Still  the  One  Presence  finding. near 

In  every  place  ;  without  a  fear, 

Still  facing  God  with  hope  and  cheer. 


Him,  too,  we  miss,  whom  busiest  days 
In  the  great  city's  crowded  ways 
Spoiled  not  for  Nature's  simple  praise. 


A    LEGEND   OF  GOOD  POETS.  219 

Still  could  his  fine,  attentive  ear 
The  laughing  brooklet's  music  hear, 
Far  off  in  Hampshire's  mellowing  year. 

And  well  his  loving  memory  knew 

The  gentian's  fringes  blue,  —  so  blue  !  — 

And  wet  with  autumn's  shining  dew. 

The  dateless  rocks,  the  lordly  trees,  — 
Sweeter  their  runic  mysteries 
To  him  than  honey  to  the  bees. 

All  these  are  gone.     Katahdin  strong, 
Wachusett,  Greylock,  cry,  "  How  long 
Since  we  have  heard  their  pleasant  song  !  " 


Now,  God  be  praised  that  some  remain, 
To  take  a  little  from  our  pain 
For  those  we  may  not  see  again  ! 

One  is  our  "  Friend  "  :  what  sweeter  praise 
Oh,  never  may  the  shortening  days 
So  bind  with  snow  his  cheerful  ways 

But  they  may  throng  with  couriers  fleet, 
Each  with  some  message  fond  and  sweet, 
To  lay,  with  reverence,  at  his  feet  ! 


220  A    LEGEND   OF  GOOD  POETS. 

From  fields  of  cotton,  rice,  and  cane, 
They  come  as  thick  as  hurrying  rain. 
Ride,  ride  !  for  soon  't  will  be  in  vain. 

Thrice  happy  soul,  who,  in  the  day 
When  Freedom  owns  no  rival  sway, 
Might,  and  yet  would  not,  gladly  say  :  — 

"  I  waited  not  till  thousands  came, 
Till  Justice  earned  but  little  blame  ; 
But  in  her  days  of  evil  fame, 

"  When  she  had  few  who  loved  her  well, 
And  earth  for  these  was  very  hell,  — 
When  martyred  Lovejoy  bleeding  fell, 

"  I  stood  and  battled  on  her  side  ; 
Gladly  for  her  would  then  have  died ; 
Now,  God  for  this  be  glorified  !  " 

No  sham  was  Whittier's  Quaker  gun  : 
With  shattering  words,  it  rent  the  dun 
Of  battle,  till  the  day  was  won. 

Yet  oft,  in  pauses  of  the  fight, 

His  songs  would  be  as  clear  and  bright 

Vs  stars  in  winter's  holiest  night. 


A    LEGEND    OE  GOOD   POETS.  22\ 

And  still  of  Truth  that  maketh  free 
He  sings,  and  of  the  Blessed  Three, 
The  greatest  of  them  Charity. 

Late  into  heaven  may  he  return  ! 
Long  may  his  "  triumph'   be  to  learn 
What  love  a  noble  life  can  earn  ! 


Our  Mother's  breast  he  never  knew ; 
But  still  abide  her  merriest  two  : 
What  can  I  sing  of  them  to  you 

That  shall  not  to  your  reverence  seem 

Faint  as  a  dream  within  a  dream, 

When  morning  comes  with  scattering  gleam  ? 

Sole  builder  of  the  one-horse  shay  ! 
Like  that  hast  thou  no  charm  to  stay 
A  hundred  years  unto  a  day ; 

Still  sound  as  that  in  every  part, 
Dear  Autocrat,  as  now  thou  art, 
Of  every  earnest,  loving  heart  ? 

Thou  who  hast  sung  "  Contentment  "  well, 
Come,  now  the  ominous  secret  tell 
Of  this,  without  thy  magic  spell. 


222  A    LEGEND   OF  GOOD  POETS. 

Was  never  feast  so  humble  found 

That,  once  by  thee  with  laughter  crowned, 

It  did  not  wondrously  abound. 

And,  when  in  Freedom's  darkest  year 

Men's  hearts  were  choked  with  doubt  and  fear, 

Thy  songs  were  full  of  hope  and  cheer. 

O  friend,  we  never  can  forget 

With  what  warm  tears  our  eyes  were  wet 

At  thy  "  We  have  a  country  yet "  ! 

And,  till  that  word  is  true  no  more, 
Her  sons  shall  love  thy  pleasant  lore, 
And  bless  thee  for  its  shining  store. 


And  thou,  our  Laureate,  home  returned 
With  all  the  honors  thou  hast  earned, 
How  have  our  hearts  within  us  burned 

With  joy  and  pride  at  every  hit 
Made  by  thy  never-failing  wit 
For  each  occasion  fine  and  fit ! 

Thy  countless  dinners  —  every  one 
We  have  enjoyed ;  the  talk  begun, 
1  inpatient  till  the  rest  were  done, 


A    LEGEND   OF  GOOD  POETS.  223 

We  waited  for  thy  voice.  How  clear 
The  ringing  laugh,  the  echoing  cheer, 
Sounded  across  from  there  to  here  ! 

JUit  deeper  joy  our  bosoms  stirred 
When  came  thy  calmest,  bravest  word, 
"  Democracy  !  "  then  most  preferred 

When  all  the  Old  World  could  impart 
Of  ordered  custom,  perfect  art, 
Had  laid  their  spell  upon  thy  heart. 

No  "  land  of  broken  promise  "  ours, 
As  once  we  feared  :   her  genius  flowers 
In  blossoms  rude  ;  her  crescent  powers 

Are  stark  and  crass,  but  she  shall  rise 
To  every  height  of  great  emprise 
Until  her  forehead  strikes  the  skies. 

Come  back,  and  help  her  once  again  ! 
Braid  yet  once  more  thy  whip,  as  when 
The  temple  gold  was  changed  for  men  ! 

Say  not  that  once  the  hour  is  given 

To  every  nation  under  heaven 

To  make  the  scales  of  justice  even. 


224  A    LEGEND   OF  GOOD   POETS. 

Say  that  each  new,  untarnished  day 
A  "  Present  Crisis  "  is,  and  they 
Arc  wise  who  always  watch  and  pray. 

Say  what  thou  wilt,  thou  shalt  not  find 
Thou  canst  a  heavier  burden  bind 
Than  suits  our  glad  and  willing  mind, 

To  seek  the  things  that  make  for  peace, 
To  strive  for  freedom's  large  increase 
Till  every  bond  shall  find  release. 

From  now  till  then,  whatever  ban 
Awaits  thee  from  the  wrath  of  man, 
Thy  place  be  ever  in  the  van. 

Our  fainting  courage  reinspire, 

Our  spirits  touch  with  quickening  fire 

From  every  heaven  of  desire. 

Then,  when  thy  genial  spirits  fail, 
True  knight,  beyond  the  mortal  veil 
Thine  eyes  shall  see  the  Holy  Grail. 


A  Legend  of  Good  Poets:  these 

With  sweet  consenting  ministries 
Have  served  us  many  a  golden  year 

With  beakers  of  immortal  cheer. 


A    LEGEND   OF  GOOD  POETS.  225 

What  shall  we  do  when  these  are  gone  ? 
The  songs  they  sang  will  still  live  on  : 
True  bards  may  yield  their  vital  breath  ; 
True  songs,  —  for  them  there  is  no  death. 

Still  up  and  down  the  earth  they  go, 
Whatever  worth  may  sleep  below  : 
Forever  good,  forever  fair, 
They  bring  us  strength  to  do  and  bear. 

And  ne'er  was  living  Poet  yet 
Who  could  beguile  men  to  forget 
The  poets  who  had  gone  to  be 
With  the  immortal  company. 

When  Homer  sang,  men  sighed  in  vain 
For  Hesiod's  old  Saturnian  strain  \ 
When  Dante  went  the  hopeless  way, 
Vergilius  was  his  guide  and  stay. 

The  living  Shakspere  walked  unknown 
With  those  who  should  have  been  his  own, 
Still  backward  yearning  for  the  day 
When  Chaucer  rode  his  pilgrim  way. 

T  was  Homer  dead  whose  I  lion  tall 
Time  could  not  batter  to  its  fall ; 
'T  was  Dante  'neath  his  weight  of  pride 
Bent  low  upon  that  mountain's  side, 


226  A    LEGEND    OF  GOOD    POETS. 

Where  well  he  knew  his  place  would  be, 
Whose  vision  of  the  mystic  Three, 
And  much  beside,  the  Centuries  gave 
For  watchers  at  his  lonely  grave. 

When  Shakspere  slept  with  small  renown 
In  Avon's  poor  provincial  town, 
Then,  not  till  then,  his  fame  began 
To  take  the  heavens  for  its  span. 

Great  soul,  wherever  thou  dost  fare, 
In  the  wide  space  of  upper  air, 
Does  any  wonder  touch  thee  more 
Than  this  immeasurable  store 

Of  honor  which  the  world  has  brought 
At  length  to  thy  imperial  thought; 
Save  only  that  thyself  couldst  know 
Thyself  so  little  here  below  ? 

•  •»••  •  •  • 

But  shall  the  mighty  poets  who  are  dead, 

And  those  whom  still  our  love  is  holding  back, 

When  they  are  gone,  suffice  the  need  of  men, 
Or  shall  our  eager,  unappeased  lack 

Demand  new  fountains,  as  occasions  new 
Shall  lead  for  many  a  hot  and  weary  day 

In  desert  plai  es,  where  the  ancient  wells, 
( )nee  so  refreshing,  are  so  far  a\va\  ? 


A    LEGEND   OF  GOOD  POETS.  227 

I  dearly  love  the  legend  which  the  lore 
Talmudic  once  to  him  of  Tarsus  gave, — 

The  Legend  of  the  Rock,  —  the  prophet's  stroke 
Quick-answering  with  cool  and  limpid  wave 

For  man  and  beast  sufficing ;  and  then  came 
The  greatest  wonder,  up  and  down  the  land 

The  people  wandered,  with  the  blessed  rock 
Of  their  salvation  ever  close  at  hand. 

It  journeyed  with  them  as  they  journeyed  on  ; 

Hunger  they  might,  but  they  could  thirst  no  more  ; 
A  fountain  theirs,  whose  measureless  expense 

Did  but  increase  the  illimitable  store. 

Behold  a  sign,  a  parable,  is  here 

Of  all  that  wondrous  beauty  of  old  time 

Which  cannot  perish,  but  with  us  remains 
As  fresh  and  fair  as  in  its  earliest  prime 

From  age  to  age  ;  a  Journeying  Rock,  it  pours 
A  flood  of  coolness  on  the  burning  sand  ; 

Heartened  once  more,  we  to  each  other  cry, 
"  And  is  not  this,  indeed,  the  Promised  Land?" 

.  ......a. 

Be  not  deceived  :  the  mighty  poets  dead, 
Whose  words  will  ever  be  entreasured 

In  loving  hearts,  —  for  all  their  golden  speech, 
The  hundredth  part  of  all  has  not  been  said. 


228  A    LEGEND   OF  GOOD  POETS. 

Nay ;  nor  can  all  the  great  ones  who  abide 
Still  here  with  us  upon  this  mortal  side, 

When  they  have  sung  their  hearts  out  to  the  full, 
Exhaust  the  flood  of  Beauty's  boundless  tide. 

There  are  who  tell  us  that  great  Pan  is  dead, 
And  all  the  Muses  from  the  earth  have  fled, 

Save  only  Clio  and  Urania ; 
And  these  with  mortals  have  been  basely  wred. 

Nay  ;  but  Terpsichore  and  Erato 
Still  hand  in  hand,  as  ever,  bravely  go  ; 

Still  whirl  the  inverted  saucers  round  and  round, 
And  in  a  flood  the  sensual  numbers  flow. 

"  Ah  !  but  Melpomene,  —  she  comes  no  more, 
Or  with  faint  echoes  of  the  great  of  yore  ! 
And  grand  Calliope,  —  her  epic  strain 
Is  silent  now  on  every  sea  and  shore. 

"  But,  most  of  all,  Polymnia,  we  crave 

Thy  solemn  hymn,  thy  vast  and  thund'rous  wave 

Of  music,  breaking  at  our  feet,  to  drown 
The  noise  that  maddens  and  the  fiends  that  rave." 

Lift  up  your  heart         These  mournful  prophecies 
Suit  not  the  measure  of  those  high  degrees 

We  have  attained  ;   nor  will,  though  we  should  drink 
The  cup  of  sorrow  to  its  very  Ices. 


A   LEG  EX D   OF  GOOD  POETS.  229 

Comes  not  the  bard  who  shall  our  Epic  sing? 
Yet  better  so  than  that  the  Muse  should  bring 

Great  Homer  back,  and  he  should  cry,  "  Alas  ! 
What  deeds  are  here  that  have  the  epic  ring?" 

What  men,  what  deeds,  would  answer  to  his  call, 
Go  read  in  yonder  glory-haunted  hall  ! 

What  hearts  like  these,  which  yet  were  all  our  own, 
Grew  cold  and  still  by  Priam's  fated  wall? 

And  you,  so  faithless,  and  so  full  of  dread 

That  those  fair  streams,  with  awe  and  wonder  fed 

From  countless  heights,  will  shrink  away  to  naught, 
Till  great  Religion  shall  herself  be  dead,  — 

For  all  these  changes  that  your  hearts  appall 
The  bending  heavens  shall  not  stoop  nor  fall. 

Beyond  the  worst,  the  best  shall  come  again  ; 
And  God  himself  shall  then  be  all  in  all. 

"  The  more  thou  searchest,"  said  the  seer  of  old, 
"The  greater  wonders  shall  thine  eyes  behold  ;  " 

And  each  new  wonder,  greater  than  the  last, 
With  tenderer  mystery  shall  thy  heart  enfold. 

"  Lo  here  ! "  "  Lo  there  !  "  the  former  prophets  cried  : 
No  here  nor  there  hath  now  the  Spirit's  tide  ; 

Thrills  with  one  voice  the  atom  and  the  sphere, 
"  Yea,  it  is  I,  and  there  is  none  beside  !  " 


230  A    LEGE  AD   OF  GOOD   FOETS. 

Shall  not  the  sense  that  these  great  things  are  so 
The  Poet's  spirit  fill  and  overflow  ? 

Shall  he  not  sing  a  braver,  sweeter  song 
For  every  marvel  we  have  come  to  know  ? 

Shall  not  this  teeming,  rushing,  roaring  time 
Give  warmer  pulses  to  his  eager  rhyme  ? 

Shall  not  its  hopes,  its  fears,  its  passionate  pain, 
Make  all  his  bells  to  deeper  music  chime? 

Yea  and  Amen  !     For  those  who  listen  well 
Begins  that  music  even  now  to  swell ; 

And  it  shall  grow  from  year  to  goodlier  year, 
Till  it  shall  smite  the  doors  of  every  hell 

That  man  has  made ;  until,  for  all  who  grope 
In  blinding  darkness  without  any  hope, 

Light  shall  spring  up,  with  freedom  wide  and  sweet 
As  this  June  heaven's  blue  and  boundless  cope. 


We  shall  not  live  to  see  that  glorious  day  : 
Far  off,  too  fir,  its  full  meridian  ray  ! 

But,  oh,  how  bright  its  earliest  beams,  that  lend 
Their  cheerful  radiance  to  our  steadfast  way  ! 


HYMNS    AND    PRAISES. 


HYMNS    AND    PRAISES. 


-*>+■ 


FOR  THE    LAST   TIME. 


PLYMOUTH     CHURCH,     FEB.     27,     1887. 

HE  preacher's  evening  task  was  done, 

The  crowd  had  gone  away ; 
But  something  pleaded  with  his  heart 
A  little  while  to  stay. 


For  him  alone  the  organ  pealed ; 

For  him  alone  the  choir 
Sang  soft  and  low,  in  sweet  accord, 

The  song  of  his  desire,  — 

"  I  heard  the  voice  of  Jesus  say, 
1  Come,  weary  one,  and  rest.'  " 

What  prophecy  for  him  was  there 
How  little  any  guessed  ! 

As  lovingly  he  lingered  there, 

Ere  yet  the  music  died, 
There  came  two  children  from  the  street, 

Unfearing  to  his  side. 


234  FOR    THE  LAST   TIME. 

The  old  man  bowed,  and,  lifting  up 
*  A  soiled  and  homeless  fa< 

He  kissed  it  as  a  mother  might, 
Then  turned  to  leave  the  place. 

On  either  side  the  children  trod, 
And  on  the  left  and  right 

A  loving  hand  on  either  pressed,  — 
So  out  into  the  night. 

Out,  little  thinking  as  he  went 

That  never  any  more 
His  willing  feet  should  inward  go 

That  sacred  threshold  o'er. 

And  it  was  well :  more  fit  good-by 
No  genius  could  devise  ; 

No  thoughtfulness  of  loving  hearts, 
No  wisdom  of  the  wise. 

The  "  little  ones ' '  had  always  been 
His  chiefest  joy  and  care  : 

With  them  alone  let  him  go  forth, 
And  God  be  with  them  there. 

And  down  the  future  he  shall  go. 

And  through  the  enfranchised  land, 
A  loving  smile  upon  his  lips. 

A  child  on  either  hand. 


XOTHER    YEAR.  235 


ANOTHER   YEAR. 

HAT  this  shall  be  a  better  year 

Than  any  passed  away, 
I  dare  not  at  its  open  door 
To  wish  or  hope  or  pray. 


Not  that  the  years  already  gone 
Were  wearisome  and  lone  ; 

That  so  with  hope  too  long  deferred 
My  heart  has  timid  grown. 

Nay,  rather  that  they  all  have  been 

So  sweet  to  me  and  good, 
That  if  for  better  I  should  ask 

'Twould  seem  ingratitude. 

And  so  with  things  far  off  and  strange 

I  do  not  care  to  cope, 
But  look  in  Memory's  face  and  learn 

What  largess  I  may  hope. 


236  ANOTHER    YEAR. 

Another  year  of  setting  suns, 

Of  stars  by  night  revealed, 
Of  springing  grass,  of  tender  buds 

By  Winter's  snow  concealed. 

Another  year  of  Summer's  glow, 
Of  Autumn's  gold  and  brown, 

Of  waving  fields,  and  ruddy  fruit 
The  branches  weighing  down. 

Another  year  of  happy  work, 

That  better  is  than  play  ; 
Of  simple  cares,  and  love  that  grows 

More  sweet  from  day  to  day. 

Another  year  of  baby  mirth 
And  childhood's  blessed  ways, 

Of  thinker's  thought  and  prophet's  dream 
And  poet's  tender  lays. 

Another  year  at  Beauty's  feast, 

At  every  moment  spread, 
Of  silent  hours  when  grow  distinct 

The  voices  of  the  dead. 

Another  year  to  follow  hard 
Where  better  souls  have  trod ; 

Another  year  of  life's  delight, 
Another  year  of  God. 

Brooklyn,  January  1,  1873 


MUG  FORD'S    VICTORY.  2^j 


MUGFORD'S  VICTORY. 

Read  in  Marblehead,  Mass.,  May  17, 1876,  on  the  hundredth  anniversary 
of  the  death  of  Captain  James  Mugford. 


UR  mother,  the  pride  of  us  all, 

She  sits  on  her  crags  by  the  shore, 
And  her  feet  they  are  wet  with  the  waves 
Whose  foam  is  as  flowers  from  the  graves 

Of  her  sons  whom  she  welcomes  no  more, 
And  who  answer  no  more  to  her  call. 


Amid  weeds  and  sea-tangle  and  shells 
They  are  buried  far  down  in  the  deep,  - 

The  deep  which  they  loved  to  career. 
Oh,  might  we  awake  them  from  sleep  ! 

Oh,  might  they  our  voices  but  hear, 

And  the  sound  of  our  holiday  bells  ! 

Can  it  be  she  is  thinking  of  them, 
Her  face  is  so  proud  and  so  still, 

And  her  lashes  are  moistened  with  tears  ? 

Ho,  little  ones  !  pluck  at  her  hem, 
Her  lap  with  your  jollity  fill, 

And  ask  of  her  thoughts  and  her  fears. 


238  MUGFORD'S    VICTORY. 

"  Fears  !  "  —  we  have  roused  her  at  last ; 

See  !  her  lips  part  with  a  smile, 
And  laughter  breaks  forth  from  her  eyes,  — 
"  Fears  !  whence  should  they  ever  arise 

In  our  hearts,  O  my  children,  the  while 
We  can  remember  the  past  ? 

"  Can  remember  that  morning  of  May, 
When  Mugford  went  forth  with  his  men, 

Twenty,  and  all  of  them  ours. 

'T  is  a  hundred  years  to  a  day, 

And  the  sea  and  the  shore  are  as  then, 

And  as  bright  are  the  grass  and  the  flowers  ; 
But  our  twenty —  they  come  not  again  ! 

"  He  had  heard  of  the  terrible  need 

Of  the  patriot  army  there 
In  Boston  town.     Now  for  a  deed 

To  save  it  from  despair  ! 
To  thrill  with  joy  the  great  commander's  heart, 
And  hope  new-born  to  all  the  land  impart  ! 

"  '  Hope  ! '  ay  ;  that  was  the  very  name 
Of  the  good  ship  that  came 
From  England  far  away, 
Laden  with  enginery  of  death, 
I    »od  for  the  cannon's  fiery  breath  ; 


MUGFORirs    VICTORY.  239 

Hope-laden  for  great  Washington, 
Who,  but  for  her,  was  quite  undone 
A  hundred  years  ago  to-day. 

"  'Oh,  but  to  meet  her  there, 
And  grapple  with  her  fair, 

Out  in  the  open  bay  ! ' 
Mugford  to  Glover  said. 

How  could  he  answer  nay? 

And  Mugford  sailed  away, 
Brave  heart  and  newly  wed. 

"  But  what  are  woman's  tears, 

And  rosy  cheeks  made  pale, 
To  one  who  far  off  hears 

The  generations  hail 
A  deed  like  this  we  celebrate  to-day, 
A  hundred  years  since  Mugford  sailed  away ! 

"  I  love  to  picture  him, 

Clear-eyed  and  strong  of  limb, 

Gazing  his  last  upon  the  rocky  shore 

His  feet  should  press  no  more  ; 

Seeing  the  tall  church-steeples  fade  away 

In  distance  soft  and  gray  ; 

So  dropping  down  below  the  horizon's  rim 

Where  fame  awaited  him. 


240  MUGFORD'S    VICTORY. 

"  Slow  sailing  from  the  east  his  victim  came. 
They  met ;  brief  parley  ;  struggle  brief  and  tame. 

And  she  was  ours  ; 
In  Boston  harbor  safe  ere  set  of  sun, 
Great  joy  for  Washington  ! 

But  heavy  grew  the  hours 
On  Mugfbrd's  hands,  longing  to  bring  to  me, 
His  mother  proud,  news  of  his  victory  \ 
But  that  was  not  to  be ! 

"  Abreast  Nantasket's  narrow  strip  of  gray 

The  British  cruisers  lay  : 

They  saw  the  daring  skipper  dropping  down 

From  the  much  hated  rebel-haunted  town, 

And  in  the  twilight  dim 

Their  boats  awaited  him, 

While  wind  and  tide  conspired 

To  grant  what  they  desired. 

" Thickly  they  swarmed  about  his  tiny  craft; 
But  Mugford  gayly  laughed 
And  gave  them  blow  for  blow  ; 
And  many  a  hapless  foe 
Went  hurtling  down  below. 

I  pon  the  schooner's  rail 

Fell,  like  a  thresher's  Hail, 
The  strokes  that  beat  the  soul  and  sense  apart, 
And  pistol-crack  through  many  an         r  heart 


MUGFORD*  S    VICTORY.  241 


Sent  deadly  hail. 
But  when  the  fight  was  o'er 
Brave  Mugford  was  no  more. 

Crying,  with  death-white  lip, 

'  Boys,  don't  give  up  the  ship !  ' 
His  soul  struck  out  for  heaven's  peaceful  shore. 

"  We  gave  him  burial  meet  \ 

Through  every  sobbing  street 
A  thousand  men  marched  with  their  arms  reversed ; 

And  Parson  Story  told, 

In  sentences  of  gold, 
The  tale  since  then  a  thousand  times  rehearsed." 

Such  is  the  story  she  tells, 

Our  mother,  the  pride  of  us  all. 
Ring  out  your  music,  O  bells, 

That  ever  such  things  could  befall ! 
Ring  not  for  Mugford  alone, 
Ring  for  the  twenty  unknown, 
Who  fought  hand-to-hand  at  his  side, 
Who  saw  his  last  look  when  he  died, 
And  who  brought  him,  though  dead,  to  his  own  ! 


242       THE   HUNDREDTH  ANNIVERSARY 


AN  odi; 

FOR    THE    BROOKLYN    CELEBRATION    OF    THE    HUNDREDTH    ANNI- 
VERSARY  OF   CHANNING'S    BIRTH,    APRIL    7,  iSSo. 

HUNDRED  years  ago  to-day! 
How  often  in  this  latter  time, 
In  fond  memorial  speech  or  rhyme, 
Has  it  been  ours  these  words  to  say ! 

A  hundred  years  to-day,  we  said, 
Since  Concord  bridge  and  Lexington 
Saw  the  great  struggle  well  begun 

And  the  first  heroes  lying  dead. 

A  hundred  years  since  Bunker  Hill 
Saw  the  red- coated  foemen  reel 
Once  and  again  before  the  steel 

Of  Prescott's  men,  victorious  still 


In  their  defeat  :   a  hundred  years 
Since  Independence  bell  rang  out 

To  all  the  people  round  about, 
Who  answered  it  with  deafening  cheers, 


OF  CHANNING'S  BIRTH.  243 

Proclaiming,  spile  the  scorner's  scorn, 

That  then  and  there-  -the  womb  of  Time 
Through  sufferance  triumphing  sublime  — 

Another  nation  had  been  born. 

"  All  men  are  equal  in  their  birth," 
Rang  out  the  steeple-rocking  bell  : 
Rejoice,  O  heaven !     Give  heed,  O  hell  ! 

Here  was  good  news  to  all  the  earth. 

And  still  our  hearts  have  kept  the  count 
Of  things  that  daily  brought  more  near, 
Through  various  hap  of  hope  or  fear, 

The  pattern  visioned  in  the  mount. 

Nor  yet  the  tale  is  fully  told 

Of  all  the  years  that  brought  us  pain, 
And,  through  the  age  of  iron,  again 

The  dawning  of  the  age  of  gold. 


But  naught  of  this  has  brought  us  here, 
With  the  old  saying  on  our  lips, 
What  time  the  rolling  planet  dips 

Into  the  spring-tide  of  the  year. 

Apart  from  all  the  dire  alarms 

Of  field  and  flood  in  that  old  time, 
With  reverent  feet  our  fancies  climb 

To  where  a  mother's  circling  arms 


244       THE  HUNDREDTH  ANNIVERSARY 

Enraptured  hold  a  babe  new  born ; 
And  who  was  there  to  prophesy, 
Though  loving  hearts  beat  strong  and  high, 

Of  what  a  day  this  was  the  morn  ? 

For  in  that  life  but  just  begun 

The  prescient  fates  a  gift  had  bound, 
As  dear  to  man  as  any  found 

Within  the  courses  of  the  sun. 

A  gift  of  manhood  strong  and  wise, 
Nor  foreign  to  the  lowliest  earth. 
Whereon  the  Word  has  human  birth, 

Howe'er  conversant  with  the  skies. 


A  hundred  years  ago  to-day 
Since  Channing's  individual  life 
From  out  the  depths  of  being,  rife 

With  spiritual  essence,  found  a  way, 

And  welcome  here,  and  forces  kind 
To  gently  nurse  his  growing  power 
With  steady  help  until  the  flower 

Of  instinct  was  a  conscious  mind. 

To  him  the  sea  its  message  brought, 
Filling  his  mind  with  sacred  awe, 
What  time  his  eye  enraptured  saw 

Its  wildest  tumult,  or  he  caught 


OF  CHANNING'S  BIRTH.  245 

From  its  deep  calm  some  peace  of  heart. 

To  him  the  ages  brought  their  lore 
Of  books,  and  living  men  their  store 

Of  thought ;  and  still  the  better  part 

Of  all  his  nurture  was  the  eye 

Turned  inward,  seeking  in  the  mind 

Some  higher,  deeper  law  to  find 

Than  that  which  spheres  the  starry  sky. 


And  so  the  youth  to  manhood  came  : 
A  being  frail,  —  with  nameless  eyes, 
That  seemed  to  look  on  Paradise,  — 

As  clear  as  dew,  as  clean  as  flame. 

He  willed  in  quiet  to  abide, 

Leading  his  flock  through  pastures  green, 
And  by  the  waters  still,  where  lean 

The  mystic  trees  on  either  side. 

But  on  his  listening  ear  there  fell 
The  jarring  discord  of  the  sects, 
Still  making,  with  their  war  of  texts, 

The  pleasant  earth  a  kind  of  hell. 

He  saw  the  Father's  sacred  name 

Made  dim  by  Calvary's  suffering  rood ; 
Man  devil-born,  —  a  spawning  flood, 

Engendering  naught  but  curse  and  shame. 


246       THE  HUNDREDTH  ANNIVERSARY 

He  saw  the  freedom  of  the  mind 

Denied,  and  doubt  esteemed  a  crime,  — 
The  path  whereby  the  boldest  climb 

To  heights  which  cowards  never  find. 

He  saw  the  manhood  which  to  him 
Was  image  of  the  highest  God 
Trodden,  as  if  it  were  a  clod, 

'Neath  slavery's  idol-chariot  grim. 

He  saw  it  fouled  with  various  sin, 
Sick'ning  from  lack  of  air  and  light, 
Abjuring  glories  infinite 

To  fatten  at  the  sensual  bin. 

He  heard  and  saw  :  his  shepherd's  rod 
With  grieving  heart  he  broke  in  twain  ; 
The  wondering  world  beheld  again 

A  prophet  of  the  living  God. 

Then,  as  of  old,  was  heard  a  voice  : 

"  His  way  prepare,"  and,  "  Come  with  me, 
All  ye  that  heavy-laden  be  ; 

Take  up  my  burden  and  rejoice  !  " 

It  rang  through  all  the  sleepy  land 
In  tones  so  sweet  and  silver  clear, 
The  waking  people  seemed  to  hear 

The  accents  of  divine  command. 


OF  CHAAWING'S  BIRTH.  247 

The  statesman  heard  it  in  his  place  ; 

The  oppressor  in  his  cursed  field  ; 

And  hearts  beyond  the  ocean  yield 
Allegiance  to  his  truth  and  grace. 

Our  Father,  God  ;  our  Brother,  man, — 
On  these  commandments  twain  he  hung 
The  law  and  prophets  all ;  and  rung  — 

For  all  the  churches'  eager  ban  — 

A  hundred  changes  deep  and  strong  ; 

Let  who  would  hear  him  or  forbear, 

The  ancient  lie  he  would  not  spare, 
The  doubtful  right,  the  vested  wrong. 

What  words  were  his  of  purest  flame, 

When,  straining  up  from  height  to  height, 
He  felt  the  Presence  infinite, 

And  named  the  Everlasting  Name  ? 

With  him  the  thought  and  deed  were  one  : 

Man  was  indeed  the  Son  of  God  ; 

';  What,  strike  a  man  !  "  l     Break  every  rod 
Of  hate  beneath  the  all-seeing  sun  ! 

So  greatly  born,  how  dare  to  trail 

Our  festal  garlands  in  the  mire  ! 

How  dare  not  evermore  aspire 
To  Him  who  is  within  the  veil  ! 


1  His  argument  against  flogging  in  the  navy. 


248       THE  HUNDREDTH  ANNIVERSAR\ 

In  weakness  made  each  day  more  strong, 
Softly  his  days  went  trooping  past, 
Till  robed  in  beauty  came  the  last, 

And  with  the  sun  he  went  along  : 

Not  to  oblivion's  dreamless  sleep, 
But,  like  the  sun,  on  other  lands 
To  shine,  where  other  busier  hands 

The  fields  immortal  sow  and  reap. 


And  he  is  ours  !     Yes,  if  we  dare, 
Leaving  the  letter  of  his  creed, 
Say  to  his  mighty  spirit,  "  Lead  ; 

We  follow  hard  ;  "  —  yes,  if  no  care 

Is  ours  for  aught  but  this  :  to  know 
What  is  God's  truth,  and  knowing  this 
To  count  it  still  our  dearest  bliss 

To  go  with  that  where'er  it  go. 

So  shall  we  go  with  him  ;  so  feel 

That  comfort  which  the  Spirit  of  Truth 
Gives  all  who  with  his  loving  ruth 

Are  pledged  to  her  for  woe  or  weal. 


O  thou  whom,  though  we  have  not  seen, 
We  love  !  upon  our  toilsome  way 
Ite  thy  pure  spirit  as  a  ray 

From  out  that  Light  which  is  too  clean 


Of   CHANNIKG'S  BIRTH.  249 

Uncleanness  to  behold  ;  shine  clear, 

That  to  our  dimly  peering  eyes 

All  hidden  truths,  all  specious  lies, 
That  which  they  are  may  straight  appear. 

There  is  no  ending  to  thy  road, 

No  limit  to  thy  fleeting  goal, 

But  speeds  the  ever-greatening  soul 
From  truth  to  truth,  from  God  to  God. 


250  INVOCATION* 


INVOCATION. 

VERLASTING,  Holy  One  ! 
Many  a  well-beloved  son 
Thou  dost  choose  like  him  of  old, 
For  Thy  truth's  sake  to  be  bold. 
Not  by  any  outward  sign 
Dost  Thou  show  Thy  will  divine  ; 
Deep  within  Thy  voice  doth  cry, 
And  our  spirits  make  reply. 

Lo,  we  stand  before  Thee  now, 
And  the  silent  inward  vow 
Thou  hast  heard,  in  that  profound, 
AYhere  is  neither  voice  nor  sound  ; 
Thou  hast  heard,  and  Thou  wilt  bless 
With  Thy  might  and  tenderness ; 
We  have  come  to  do  Thy  will  \ 
With  Thy  love  our  spirits  fill. 


EASTER  MORNING.  25  I 


EASTER    MORNING. 

GENTLE  tumult  in  the  earth, 

A  murmur  in  the  trees, 
An  odor  faint,  but  passing  sweet, 
Upon  the  morning  breeze,  — 
The  heralds  these,  whom  thou  dost  send, 

Dear  Spring,  that  we  may  know 
How  soon  the  land,  from  side  to  side, 
Shall  with  thy  beauty  glow. 

And  'tis  by  tokens  faint  as  these, 

O  Truth,  that  makest  free  ! 
That  thou  dost  give  assurance  strong 

Of  better  things  to  be  : 
Of  higher  faith  and  holier  trust ; 

Of  love  more  deep  and  wide  ; 
Of  hope,  whose  anchor  shall  not  break, 

Whatever  storms  betide ! 

O  Truth  of  God,  it  is  not  ours 

Thy  Summer  to  foretell, 
Nor  ours  to  taste  the  fruit  which  now 

Doth  in  the  blossom  swell  \ 


252 


THE  PERFECT  LAW. 

But  we  are  glad,  and  free  of  heart, 
That  we  Thy  Spring  have  known  : 

Well  speed  the  days  whose  sweetest  praise 
Is  to  be  called  Thine  own. 


1S76. 


THE    PERFECT   LAW. 

GOD,  we  come  not  as  of  old, 

1  Hstrustful  of  Thy  Law, 
In  hope  to  find  Thy  seamless  robe 
Marred  by  some  sudden  flaw,  — 
Some  rent  to  let  Thy  glory  through 

And  make  our  darkness  shine, 
If  haply  thus  our  souls  may  know 
What  power  and  grace  are  Thine. 


Thy  seamless  robe  conceals  Thee  not 

From  earnest  hearts  and  true  ; 
The  glory  of  Thy  perfectness 

Shines  all  its  texture  through  ; 
And  on  its  trailing  hem  we  read, 

As  Thou  dost  linger  near, 
The  message  of  a  love  more  deep 

Than  any  depth  of  fear. 


johx  Weiss.  253 

And  so  no  more  our  hearts  shall  plead 

For  miracle  and  sign  ; 
Thy  order  and  Thy  faithfulness 

Are  all  in  all  divine  : 
These  are  Thy  revelations  vast 

From  earliest  days  of  yore  ; 
These  are  our  confidence  and  peace  ; 

We  cannot  wish  for  more. 


1S74. 


JOHN    WEISS. 

VER  all  the  land  to-day, 

Where  our  heroes  sleeping  lie, 
Blooms  the  amaranthine  flower 
That  shall  never  fade  or  die. 

But  for  us  a  newer  grave 

Flushes  with  as  fair  a  bloom,  —  . 
] bluest  of  forget-me-nots 

On  a  stainless  soldier's  tomb. 

He  was  fellow  with  them  all, 

W7earers  of  the  blue  and  gray,  — 

Men  who,  told  that  they  must  die, 
Only  asked  to  know  the  way. 


254  THE  MEETING-HOUSE. 

Ever  first  in  freedom's  van, 

Took  his  breast  the  sheaf  of  spears  ; 

Here  is  loss  too  deep  for  words, 
Here  is  grief  too  proud  for  tears. 

Onward,  where  he  led  the  way  ! 

Many  more  will  have  to  fall 
Ere  the  glorious  banner  waves 

Peace  and  triumph  over  all. 

Decoration  Day,  1879. 


THE   MEETING-HOUSE. 

OME,"  said  the  fathers,  "  let  us  build 
A  beacon  here  beside  the  sea, 
And  trim  its  lamp  for  those  who  toss 
On  the  wide  waters  wearily." 


They  built  it  broad  ;  they  built  it  high  ; 

They  crowned  the  work  with  prayer  and  song ; 
They  set  a  watchman  in  the  tower 

To  tend  the  light  and  keep  it  strong. 

Oh,  many  a  frail  and  wandering  bark 
Since  then  lias  seen  our  beacon  light 

And  hastened  home  across  the  dark, 
Rejoicing  in  the  goodly  sight  ! 


HYMN. 


:n 


Long  may  its  starry  welcome  gleam  ; 

Long  may  it  guide  the  wear)'  home  ; 
Long  may  its  tender  message  stream 

Across  the  waste  of  wind  and  foam  ! 


Hingham,  Mass,  1879. 


HYMN 


FOR    THE    DEDICATION    OF    THE    UNITARIAN    BUILDING,    BOSTON,    MASS. 

HE  Thought  which  Love  conceived  is  born, 
To  fact  the  artist's  dream  has  grown, 
And  Strength  with  beauty  doth  adorn 
Her  courses  fair  of  gleaming  stone. 

O  God,  our  Father,  unto  Thee, 
Thy  law,  thy  love,  eternal  powers, 

Thy  truth  which  ever  maketh  free, 
We  consecrate  this  home  of  ours. 

Here  may  we  come  with  pilgrim  feet, 
From  wanderings  long  and  distance  far, 

To  bless  Thee  for  the  influence  sweet 
Of  faith  which  shines  a  fadeless  star. 

And  here,  as  from  a  fountain  clear 
That  pours  a  glorious  river  down 

From  mountain  heights  to  cool  and  cheer 
A  thousand  leagues  of  turf  and  town. 


256  HYMN. 

May  rise,  and  flow  to  field  and  mart, 
A  sacred  stream  of  knowledge  pure, 

With  quiet  for  the  restless  heart, 

And  strength  all  hardness  to  endure. 

And  here  may  memories  great  and  fair 
Of  saints  and  heroes  of  our  band 

So  stir  our  souls  that  we  may  dare, 
As  they,  to  do  Thy  full  command. 


BEFORE   CHRISTMAS.  257 


BEFORE   CHRISTMAS. 


HE  Christmas-time  draws  on  apace  ; 

The  happy  crowds  go  up  and  down  ; 

There's  joy  and  hope  in  all  the  tov/n 
And  in  each  little  maiden's  face 


A  look  of  expectation  sweet, 

That  comes  of  musing  oft  and  long 
On  what  that  day  of  gift  and  song 

Shall  bring  to  her  as  offering  meet. 

But  I  will  sit  alone  and  dream 

Of  Him  who  gave  the  day  its  name ; 
And  think  of  all  His  wondrous  fame, 

And  if  to  Him  it  strange  doth  seem 

That  in  these  happy,  careless  ways, 
As  often  as  the  years  come  round, 
We  mark  with  light,  and  joyful  sound, 

His  advent  and  His  toilsome  days. 


258  BEFORE   CHRISTMAS. 

And  deeper  still  my  thoughts  shall  go, 
And  ponder  if  He  hears  above, 
'Mid  all  the  heavenly  peace  and  love, 

Our  weary  talking  to  and  fro  ; 

Our  asking  how  it  all  began, 

And  what  the  secret  of  His  power, 
That  since  He  came  until  this  hour, 

The  world  has  said,  "  Behold  the  man  !  M 

Behold  the  man  !     Behold  the  God  ! 

Ah,  which  to  say,  and  how,  and  why  ! 

In  vain  our  tangled  reasons  try 
The  path  so  many  feet  have  trod. 

O  man  of  sorrows,  man  of  joy  !  — 

Of  joy  for  all  Thy  strife  and  scars,  — 
Whereso  Thou  art  among  the  stars, 

In  peace  that  nothing  can  destroy,  — 

Though  we  our  voices  may  not  blend 

With  that  hoarse  chant  the  centuries  raise, 
Yet  is  it  not  a  sweeter  praise 

To  say,  "  Our  brother  and  our  friend  "  ? 

And  if  beyond  this  verge  of  time, 
We  know  Thee  better  as  Thou  art, 
Wilt  Thou  not  clasp  us  heart  to  heart, 

As  fills  our  ears  the  heavenly  chime  ? 

1869. 


MODJESKA    AS  ROSALIND.  259 


MODJESKA   AS   ROSALIND. 

IS  said,  sweet  singing  always  makes  us  sad  ; 
But  how  could  thy  sweet  playing  serve  us  so  ? 
When  thou  as  Rosalind  didst  bravely  go 
To  the  wild  wood,  in  such  strange  habit  clad 
As  made  thee  seem  a  swashing  martial  lad, 
To  thy  Orlando  ;  but  to  us  —  ah,  no  ! 
Such  grace  as  thine  no  man  could  ever  show. 
Why,  seeing  that,  were  we  not  wholly  glad? 
To  eye  and  ear  each  moment  was  delight. 
Not  for  our  own  sakes  were  we  sad  at  heart, 

But  that  Will  Shakspere,  from  death's  envious  night, 
Could  not  come  back  to  see  thy  perfect  art ; 
That  he  might  say,  O  sweet  beyond  compare  ! 
I  dreamed  of  nothing  that  was  half  so  fair. 


1S84. 


26o  TO  A,    W.   A\ 


TO    A.    W.    R. 

ON    READING    HER    BOOK    OF    POEMS    CALLED    "THE    RING   OF 

AMETHYST." 

T  came  to  me  one  perfect  summer  day 
Amid  the  tender  beauty  of  the  hills, 
Whose  every  niche  a  poet's  memory  fills 
With  echoes  of  his  own  resounding  lay. 
Died  out  the  children's  voices  at  their  play, 
While  sweet  for  me  as  lapse  of  mountain  rills, 
Or  fragrance  that  some  rose's  heart  distils, 
Your  gentle  verses  had  with  me  their  way. 
I  read  and  read  :  the  scene  was  all  forgot ; 

Down  dropped  the  sun  above  the  poet's  home  ; 
The  first  faint  stars  came  out  in  heaven's  dome  ; 
Alone  with  you,  all  other  things  were  not ; 
Till  sudden,  pausing,  lo,  the  purple  mist 
Had  made  the  hills  a  ring  of  amethyst  I 

Chesterfield,  July  5,  1S78. 


CHARLES  SUMNER.  26 1 


CHARLES    SUMNER. 

Si  monumentum  reqiriris,  circumspice. 

flY,  look  around ;  but  thou  may'st  not  behold 
Aught  built  of  stone  and  carved  magnificent, 
With  dome  or  spire  high  up  towards  heaven 
sent, 
And  blazoned  all  with  crimson  and  with  gold. 
By  no  such  wonders  can  his  worth  be  told  ; 

Not  such  indeed  shall  be  his  monument, 

Our  statesman,  who  upon  God's  errands  went, 
For  freedom's  sake  the  boldest  of  the  bold. 

But  look  around,  and  say  what  thou  dost  see  \ 
Or  think  it  solemnly  with  bated  breath  : 

A  nation  with  no  man  who  is  not  free ; 
A  nation  living  after  years  of  death  ; 
And  yet  to  live  a  life  more  pure  and  high 
Because  this  man  for  her  could  live  and  die. 


March,  1S74. 


262  TO  FREDERIC  HENRY  HEDGE. 


TO   FREDERIC   HENRY   HEDGE. 

EIGHTY   YEARS   OLD,  DEC.   12,  18S5. 

OT  because  thou  hast  sat  beside  the  King 
At  the  high  feast ;  nor  yet  because  the  queen. 
Our  "  rare  pale  Margaret,"  thou  hast  often  seen 
For  naught  of  this,  O  friend,  to  thee  we  bring, 
This  day,  our  simple,  heartfelt  offering 

Of  thanks  and  praise  ;  but  for  that  thou  hast  been 

Thyself  one  of  the  royal-hearted  men, 
Wearing  the  crown,  the  sceptre,  and  the  ring, 

As  only  they  unto  the  purple  born 
Can  wear  the  symbols  of  their  majesty  ; 

And  most  because,  with  a  right  royal  scorn 
Of  all  things  base,  thy  spirit  has  been  free 

From  any  fear  that  Truth  will  leave  forlorn 
The  man  who  loves  and  trusts  her  utterly. 


GRADUATION  HYMN.  263 


HYMN 

Written  for  my  Divinity-School  Graduation. 


TERNAL  Ruler  of  the  ceaseless  round 
Of  circling  planets  singing  on  their  way ; 
Guide  of  the  nations  from  the  night  profound 

Into  the  glory  of  the  perfect  day  ; 
Rule  in  our  hearts,  that  we  may  ever  be 
Guided,  and  strengthened,  and  upheld  by 
Thee. 


We  are  of  Thee,  the  children  of  Thy  love, 
The  brothers  of  Thy  well-beloved  Son ; 

Descend,  O  Holy  Spirit,  like  a  dove, 
Into  our  hearts,  that  we  may  be  as  one ; 

As  one  with  Thee,  to  whom  we  ever  tend, 

As  one  with  Him,  our  brother  and  our  friend. 

We  would  be  one  in  hatred  of  all  wrong, 
One  in  our  love  of  all  things  sweet  and  fair, 

One  with  the  joy  that  breaketh  into  song, 
One  with  the  grief  that  trembles  into  prayer, 


2 64  GRA D UA  TION  HYMN. 

One  in  the  power  that  makes  Thy  children  free 
To  follow  truth,  and  thus  to  follow  Thee. 

Oh,  clothe  us  with  Thy  heavenly  armor,  Lord  ! 

Thy  trusty  shield,  Thy  sword  of  love  divine  ; 
Our  inspiration  be  Thy  constant  word, 

We  ask  no  victories  that  are  not  Thine ; 
Give  or  withhold,  let  pain  or  pleasure  be, 
Enough  to  know  that  we  are  serving  Thee. 

Cambridge,  1864. 


HYMN 

For  a  Friend's  Graduation. 

ORTH  from  the  calm  and  still  retreat, 
Into  the  world  so  wide ; 
Forth  from  the  gently  rocking  fleet, 
Into  the  rushing  tide. 

We  know  Thy  seas  are  deep  and  wide, 
But  all  their  waves  are  Thine ; 

And  over  them,  our  course  to  guide, 
Thy  stars  for  ever  shine. 


GRADUATION  HYMN.  265 

Here  have  our  eyes  beheld  their  light, 

Now  by  it  let  us  fly, 
Before  the  gale  and  through  the  night, 

To  do  Thy  bidding  high  \ 

To  bear  our  little  freight  of  truth 

To  every  waiting  shore  ; 
To  seek  beyond  the  verge  of  youth, 

For  ever  more  and  more. 

Oh  that  each  had  a  stancher  ship, 

A  crew  more  sternly  bound, 
To  follow  the  horizon's  dip 

And  sail  the  world  around ! 


Cambridge,  1868. 


266  DEDICATION  HYMN. 


A   DEDICATION    HYMN. 

ERE  in  a  corner  of  Thy  house, 

Rock-ribbed  and  built  since  time  began, 
And  building  yet  with  art  divine 
Co-working  with  the  art  of  man, 
Our  hands,  O  God,  have  built  a  shrine, 
Our  hearts  have  vowed  to  make  it  Thine. 

Here  may  we  come  with  eager  feet, 
To  sing  Thy  love  and  learn  Thy  law, 

And  quench  our  inmost  being's  thirst 
At  those  deep  springs  of  sacred  awe, 

Which  underneath  our  being  run, 

From  sources  higher  than  the  sun. 

Here  may  the  vastness  of  Thy  house 
More  clearly  to  our  minds  appear ; 

Its  mystery  grand  and  music  sweet 
Grow  ever  to  our  hearts  more  dear ; 

And  Thy  clear  face,  the  more  we  yearn, 

Through  every  glowing  window  burn.     • 


ORDINATION  HYMN.  267 

Oh,  here  may  every  thought  be  pure, 
And  every  passion  self-controlled  ; 

Here  all  our  words  be  kind  and  true, 
And  every  purpose  high  and  bold  : 

So  shall  Thy  presence  fill  the  shrine, 

And  all  our  hearts  and  lives  be  Thine. 


1875. 


HYMN 

For  a  Friend's  Ordination. 

ORD  of  all  visions  fair  and  sweet, 
&       Thy  name  we  praise  that  here  to-day 
We  welcome  one  who  did  not  dare, 
Thy  vision  seen,  to  disobey ; 

But  up  and  followed  on  and  on, 

Though  rough  the  way  and  dark  the  night, 
Led  ever  by  that  threefold  gleam, 

The  True,  the  Beautiful,  the  Right. 

It  lured  him  on  through  many  lands  ; 

Through  generations  strange  and  old  ; 
To  Moses  with  his  face  aglow, 

To  Jesus  with  his  lips  of  gold. 


26$ 


THE  LAW  OF  LIBERTY. 


1870. 


No  longer  now  in  cloistered  calm 
He  feels  its  influence  benign ; 

It  leads  him  forth  ;  it  leads  him  here, 
To  make  us  his  as  he  is  Thine. 

Lord  of  all  visions  sweet  and  fair, 
Thou  carest  not  for  time  or  place  ; 

Still  as  of  old  the  promise  stands,  — 
The  pure  in  heart  shall  see  Thy  face. 


THE   LAW   OF   LIBERTY. 


Sung  at  a  Festival  of  the  Free  Religions  Association. 


HOU,  whose  name  is  blazoned  forth 
On  our  banner's  gleaming  fold, 

Freedom  !  thou  whose  sacred  worth 
Never  yet  has  half  been  told, 

Often  have  we  sung  of  thee, 

Dear  to  us  as  dear  can  be. 


But  to-night  we  sing  of  one 
Older,  graver  far,  than  thou  ; 

With  the  seal  of  time  begun 
Stamped  upon  her  awful  brow  : 

Freedom,  latest  born  of  time, 

Knowesl  thou  her  form  sublime? 


THE    LAW   OF  LIBERTY  269 

She  is  Duty  :   in  her  hand 

Is  a  sceptre  heaven-brought ; 
Hers  the  accent  of  command, 

Hers  the  dreadful,  mystic  Ought ; 
Hers  upon  us  all  to  lay 
Heavier  burdens  every  day. 

But  her  bondage  is  so  sweet ! 

And  her  burdens  make  us  strong ; 
Wings  they  seem  to  weary  feet, 

Laughter  to  our  lips  and  song  : 
Freedom,  make  us  free  to  speed 

Wheresoever  she  may  lead. 


June,  1876. 


2  70  LUCRETIA   MOTT. 


LUCRETIA   MOTT. 


EAR  noble  woman,  who  hast  lived  so  long 
And  served  so  well  the  people's  sorest  need  ! 
Who  still,  howe'er  thy  heart  might  inly  bleed, 
Hast  ever  sung  thy  cheery  household  song ; 
Turning  from  strenuous  battle  against  wrong, 
With  wholesome  care  thy  growing  flock  to  feed, 
In  pastures  green  their  frolic  feet  to  lead,  — 
To  thee  the  laurel  crown  doth  well  belong ; 

For  thou  hast  shown  an  unbelieving  world, 
Most  womanly  of  women,  that  no  less 

In  the  hot  field  where  deadly  shafts  are  hurled, 
Women  may  keep  their  spirit's  gentleness, 

Than  when  at  home,  in  soft  seclusion  curled, 
They  live  unmindful  of  the  world's  distress. 

Philadelphia,  1878. 


WILLIAM  HENRY  F  URN  ESS. 


271 


WILLIAM    HENRY   FURNESS. 

Read  at  the  Celebration  of  the  Fiftieth  Anniversary  of  his 
Settlement  in  Philadelphia. 


TANDING  upon  the  summit  of  thy  years, 
Dear  elder  brother,  what  dost  thou  behold, 
Along  the  way  thy  tireless  feet  have  come 
From  that  far  day,  when  young  and  fresh 
and  bold, 
Hearing  a  voice  that  called  thee  from  on  high, 
Thou  answeredst  quickly,  "  Father,  here  am  I." 

Fain  would  we  see  all  that  thine  eyes  behold  ; 

And  yet  not  all,  for  there  is  secret  store 
Of  joy  and  sorrow  in  each  private  heart, 

To  which  no  stranger  openeth  the  door. 
But  thou  canst  speak  of  many  things  beside, 
While  we  a  little  space  with  thee  abide. 

Tell  us  of  those  who  fifty  years  ago 

Started  thee  forth  upon  thy  sacred  quest, 

Who  all  have  gone  before  thee,  each  alone, 
To  seek  and  find  the  Islands  of  the  Blest. 

To-day  methinks  that  there  as  well  as  here 

Is  kept  all  tenderly  thy  golden  year. 


272 


WILLIAM  HENRY  F  URN  ESS. 


Tell  us  for  thou  didst  know  and  love  him  well, 
Of  Channing's  face,  —  of  those  dilating  eyes 

That  seemed  to  catch,  while  he  was  with  us  here, 
Glimpses  of  things  beyond  the  upper  skies. 

Tell  us  of  that  weak  voice,  which  was  so  strong 

To  cleave  asunder  every  form  of  wrong. 

Thou  hast  had  good  companions  on  thy  way  ; 

Gannett  was  with  thee  in  his  ardent  prime, 
And  with  thee  still  when  outward  feebleness 

But  made  his  spirit  seem  the  more  sublime, 
Till,  like  another  prophet,  summoned  higher, 
He  'found,  like  him,  a  chariot  of  fire. 

And  that  beloved  disciple  was  thy  friend, 

Whose  heart  was  blither  than  the  name  he  bore, 

Who  yet  could  hide  the  tenderness  of  May, 
And,  bleaker  than  December,  downward  pour 

The  tempest  of  his  wrath  on  slavery's  lie, 

And  all  that  takes  from  man's  humanity. 

And  thou  hast  walked  with  our  Saint  Theodore, 
Our  warrior-saint,  well-named  the  gift  of  God, 

Whose  manful  hate  of  every  hateful  thing 
Blossomed  with  pity,  e'en  as  Aaron's  rod, 

And  lips  that  cursed  the  priest  and  Pharisee 

Gathered  more  honey  than  the  wilding  bee. 


WILLIAM  HENRY  F  URN  ESS.  273 

All  these  are  gone,  and  Sumner's  heart  beneath 
Should  make  more  pure  the  yet  untainted  snow ; 

Our  one  great  statesman  of  these  latter  days, 
Happy  wert  thou  his  other  side  to  know  ; 

To  call  him*  friend,  whom  ages  yet  unborn 

Shall  love  tenfold  for  every  breath  of  scorn. 

All  these  are  gone,  but  one  is  with  us  still, 
So  frail  that  half  we  deem  she  will  not  die, 

But  slow  exhale  her  earthly  part  away, 
And  wear  e'en  here  the  vesture  of  the  sky. 

Lucretia,  blessed  among  women  she, 

Dear  friend  of  Truth,  and  Peace,  and  Liberty. 

And  one,  whose  form  is  as  the  Son  of  Man, 

Has  been  with  thee  through  all  these  busy  years  ; 

Holden  our  eyes,  and  He  to  us  has  seemed 
As  one  seen  dimly  through  a  mist  of  tears ; 

But  thou  hast  seen  Him  clearly  face  to  face, 

And  told  us  of  His  sweetness  and  His  grace. 

Standing  upon  the  summit  of  thy  years, 
Dear  elder  brother,  thou  canst  see  the  day 

When  slavery's  curse  had  sway  in  all  the  land, 
And  thou  art  here,  and  that  has  passed  away. 

We  give  thee  joy  that  in  its  hour  of  pride 

Thy  voice  and  hand  were  on  the  weaker  side. 


274  WILLIAM  HENRY  FURNESS. 

But  from  thy  clear  and  lofty  eminence 

Let  not  thine  eyes  be  ever  backward  turned, 

For  thou  canst  see  before  as  cannot  we 

Who  have  not  yet  thy  point  of  vantage  earned. 

Tell  us  of  what  thou  seest  in  the  years 

That  look  so  strange,  seen  through  our  hopes  and  fears 

Nothing  we  know  to  shake  thy  steadfast  mind ; 

Nothing  to  quench  thy  heart  with  doubt  or  fear ; 
But  higher  truth  and  holier  love  revealed, 

And  justice  growing  to  man's  heart  more  dear. 
And  everywhere  beneath  high  heaven's  cope, 
A  deeper  trust,  a  larger,  better  hope. 

There  are  some  here  that  shall  not  taste  of  death 
Till  they  have  seen  the  kingdom  come,  with  power. 

O  brave  forerunner,  wheresoe'er  thou  art, 
Thou  wilt  be  glad  with  us  in  that  glad  hour. 

Farewell !     Until  we  somewhere  meet  again, 

We  know  in  whom  we  have  believed.     Amen. 


January  12,  1875. 


EZRA   STILES  GANNETT.  275 


EZRA   STILES   GANNETT. 

r  eve  there  shall  be  light,"  the  promise  runs 
In  the  dear  volume  that  he  loved  so  well , 
btj  Ay,  and  for  him  the  promise  was  fulfilled, 

When  rang  for  him  the  solemn  vesper-bell. 

His  was  no  day  of  sweet,  unsullied  blue, 

And  bright,  warm  sunshine  on  the  grass  and  flowers ; 
But  many  a  cloud  of  loss  and  grief  and  pain 

Dropped  its  deep  shadow  on  the  fleeting  hours. 

Clear  were  his  morning  hours,  and  calm  and  bright ; 

His  sun  shot  up  with  splendid  fiery  beam ; 
And  men  were  glad  and  revelled  in  its  light, 

And  leaped  to  welcome  it  from  sleep  and  dream. 

Then  came  a  cloud  and  overshadowed  him, 
And  chilled  him  with  a  presage  as  of  death  ; 

And  never  did  it  quite  forsake  his  sky, 
But  sought  him  often  with  its  eager  breath. 

For  stili,  though  hours  were  his  serene  and  still, 
And  radiant  hours  of  steady,  glowing  noon, 

That  cloud  of  pain  was  ever  near  to  touch 
With  quivering  sadness  every  brightest  boon. 


276  EZRA    STILES  GANNETT. 

And  as  his  afternoon  drew  on  to  eve 

And  still  he  lingered  in  the  whitened  field,  — 

The  reapers  were  so  few,  till  night  should  fall 
Fain  would  his  hand  the  heavy  sickle  wield,  — 

Darker  it  grew  and  darker  o'er  the  land, 
And  he  was  forced  to  lay  his  sickle  by ; 

But  did  it  brighten,  then  his  hand  was  quick 
To  seize  once  more  its  opportunity. 

So  the  day  faded,  and  the  evening  came ; 

Then  from  the  sky  the  clouds  were  furled  away, 
And  a  great  peace  and  beauty  welcomed  in 

The  evening  star  with  her  benignant  ray. 

And  all  the  air  was  hushed  and  whispering, 
And  all  the  sky  was  purely,  softly  bright ; 

And  so  the  blessed  promise  was  fulfilled : 

"  At  eve,"  it  said,  —  "  at  eve  there  shall  be  light." 

But  that  fair  evening  did  not  end  in  night, 
With  shadows  deep  and  darkness  all  forlorn ; 

Just  at  its  brightest  he  was  snatched  away 
Into  the  golden  palaces  of  morn. 

And  surely  since  the  Master  went  that  way, 
To  welcome  there  earth's  holiest  and  best, 

He  has  not  welcomed  one  who  loved  him  more 
Than  he  who  leaned  that  evening  on  his  breast. 

August,  187  i 


SEVEN  TIMES  ELEVEN.  277 


SEVEN   TIMES   ELEVEN. 

ROM  seven  times  one  the  tender  song  went  on 
To  seven  times  seven,  and  there  made  an  end  ; 
But  so,  thank  God,  it  has  not  been  with  thee 
And  thy  good  years,  O  dear  and  blessed  friend  ! 

Thy  seven  times  eight  had  passed  ere  first  I  knew 
The  kindly  welcome  of  thy  pleasant  face ; 

Thy  seven  times  nine  beheld  thee  full  of  years. 
But  yet  more  full  of  gentleness  and  grace. 

Then  came  the  goal,  —  the  threescore  years  and  ten  ; 

Still  sang  thy  heart  its  sweet  and  natural  song  : 
"  Labor  and  sorrow  "?     Nay,  to  thee  I  deem 

Labor  and  joy  forevermore  belong. 

Fur  thou  hast  ever  found  thy  sweetest  joy 
In  simple  tasks  of  love  and  friendliness  ; 

Finding,  like  one  to  me  forever  dear, 

That  naught  i.,  easier  than  to  cheer  and  bless. 


2/8  SEVEN   TIMES  ELEVEN. 

And  so  thy  seven  times  eleven  comes 
And  finds  thee  laboring  and  loving  still ; 

Striving,  ere  yet  the  day  is  wholly  done, 
To  fit  thy  task  yet  closer  to  His  will. 

Work  on,  love  on,  in  sorrow,  yet  in  joy ; 

Another  song  of  seven  live  to  sing 
Ere,  life  well  spent,  thy  winter  turn  at  last 

To  sudden  freshness  like  this  month  of  spring. 

Somehow  my  lyre  is  broken  in  these  days, 
Nor  makes  the  music  that  it  made  of  yore  ; 

But  'mid  the  jar  this  note  at  least  sounds  true  : 
God's  peace  be  with  thee  now  and  evermore  ! 

April  23,  1882. 


A  OLD  LANG  SYNE.  2J<j 


AULD   LANG   SYNE. 


T  singeth  low  in  every  heart, 
We  hear  it  each  and  all,  — 
A  song  of  those  who  answer  not, 
However  we  may  call ; 
They  throng  the  silence  of  the  breast, 

We  see  them  as  of  yore,  — 
The  kind,  the  brave,  the  true,  the  sweet, 
Who  walk  with  us  no  more. 

'Tis  hard  to  take  the  burden  up, 

When  these  have  laid  it  down ; 
They  brightened  all  the  joy  of  life, 

They  softened  every  frown  ; 
But,  oh,  'tis  good  to  think  of  them, 

When  we  are  troubled  sore ! 
Thanks  be  to  God  that  such  have  been, 

Although  they  are  no  more  ! 

More  home-like  seems  the  vast  unknown, 
Since  they  have  entered  there ; 


2 So  AULD  LANG  SYNE. 

To  follow  them  were  not  so  hard, 
Wherever  they  may  fare  ; 

They  cannot  be  where  God  is  not, 
On  any  sea  or  shore  \ 

Whate'er  betides,  Thy  love  abides, 
Our  God,  for  evermore. 

Apriu  1S76. 


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